The Turner
Diaries
What will you do when they come
to take your guns?
Earl Turner and his fellow patriots face this question
and are forced underground when the U.S. government bans the
private possession of firearms and stages the mass Gun Raids
to round up suspected gun owners. The hated Equality
Police begin hunting them down, but the patriots fight back with
a campaign of sabotage and assassination. An all-out race
war occurs as the struggle escalates. Turner and his comrades
suffer terribly, but their ingenuity and boldness in devising
and executing new methods of guerrilla warfare lead to
a victory of cataclysmic intensity and worldwide scope.
The FBI has labeled
The Turner Diaries "the bible of the racist right." If the government had the power to ban books, this
one
would be at the top of the list. The Turner Diaries is the most controversial book in America today and it's a book unlike
any you've read!
Forward
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter
XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Epilog
FAQ
by Andrew Macdonald
The Turner
Diaries
Forward
There exists such an extensive body of literature on the Great Revolution, including the memoirs of virtually
every one of its leading
figures who survived into the New Era, that yet another book dealing with the events and circumstances
of that time of cataclysmic
upheaval and rebirth may seem superfluous. The Turner Diaries, however, provides an insight
into the background of the Great
Revolution which is uniquely valuable for two reasons: 1) It is a fairly detailed and
continuous record of a portion of the struggle
during the years immediately before the culmination of the Revolution,
written as it happened, on a day-to-day basis. Thus, it is free
of the distortion which often afflicts hindsight. Although
the diaries of other participants in that mighty conflict are extant, none which
has yet been published provides as complete
and detailed a record. 2) It is written from the viewpoint of a rank-and-file member of
the Organization, and, although
it consequently suffers from myopia occasionally, it is a totally frank document. Unlike the accounts
recorded by some
of the leaders of the Revolution, its author did not have one eye on his place in history as he wrote. As we read the
pages
which follow, we get a better understanding than from any other source, probably, of the true thoughts and feelings of the
men
and women whose struggle and sacrifice saved our race in its time of greatest peril and brought about the New Era.
Earl Turner, who wrote these diaries, was born in 43 BNE in Los Angeles, which was the
name of a vast metropolitan area on the
west coast of the North American continent in the Old Era, encompassing the present
communities of Eckartsville and Wesselton as
well as a great deal of the surrounding countryside. He grew up in the Los
Angeles area and was trained as an electrical engineer.
After his education he settled near the city of Washington, which
was then the capital of the United States. He was employed there by
an electronics research firm. He first became active
in the Organization in 12 BNE. When this record begins, in 8 BNE (1991
according to the old chronology), Turner was 35
years old and had no mate.
These diaries span barely two years in Earl
Turner's life, yet they give us an intimate acquaintance with one of those whose name is
inscribed in the Record of Martyrs.
For that reason alone his words should have a special significance for all of us, who in our school
days were given the
task of memorizing the names of all the Martyrs in that sacred Record handed down to us by our ancestors.
Turner's diaries
consist, in their manuscript form, of five large, cloth-bound ledgers, completely filled, and a few pages at the
beginning
of a sixth. There are many loose inserts and notes between the ledger pages, apparently written by Turner on those days
when he was away from his base and later interpolated into his permanent record.
The ledgers were discovered last year along with a wealth of other historically important material by the same team from
the
Historical Institute, led by Professor Charles Anderson, which earlier uncovered the Eastern Command Center of the
Revolution in its
excavations near the Washington ruins. It is fitting that they now be made available to the general
public during this, the 100th
anniversary year of the Great Revolution.
THE TURNER DIARIES
by Andrew Macdonald
Chapter
1
September 16, 1991. Today it finally began! After all these
years of talking-and nothing but talking-we have finally taken our first
action. We are at war with the System, and it
is no longer a war of words.
I cannot sleep, so I will try writing down
some of the thoughts which are flying through my head. It is not safe to talk here. The walls
are quite thin, and the
neighbors might wonder at a late-night conference. Besides, George and Katherine are already asleep. Only
Henry and I
are still awake, and he's just staring at the ceiling.
I am really uptight.
I am so jittery I can barely sit still. And I'm exhausted. I've been up since 5:30 this morning, when George phoned
to
warn that the arrests had begun, and it's after midnight now. I've been keyed up and on the move all day.
But at the same time I'm exhilarated. We have finally acted! How long we will be able
to continue defying the System, no one knows.
Maybe it will all end tomorrow, but we must not think about that. Now that
we have begun, we must continue with the plan we have
been developing so carefully ever since the Gun Raids two years
ago.
What a blow that was to us! And how it shamed us! All that brave
talk by patriots, "The government will never take my guns away,"
and then nothing but meek submission when
it happened.
On the other hand, maybe we should be heartened by the fact
that there were still so many of us who had guns then, nearly 18
months after the Cohen Act had outlawed all private
ownership of firearms in the United States. It was only because so many of us
defied the law and hid our weapons instead
of turning them in that the government wasn't able to act more harshly against us after
the Gun Raids.
I'll never forget that terrible day: November 9, 1989. They knocked on my door at five
in the morning. I was completely unsuspecting
as I got up to see who it was.
I opened the door, and four Negroes came pushing into the apartment before I could stop them. One was carrying a baseball
bat, and
two had long kitchen knives thrust into their belts. The one with the bat shoved me back into a corner and stood
guard over me with
his bat raised in a threatening position while the other three began ransacking my apartment.
My first thought was that they were robbers. Robberies of this sort had become all too
common since the Cohen Act, with groups of
Blacks forcing their way into White homes to rob and rape, knowing that even
if their victims had guns they probably would not dare
use them.
Then
the one who was guarding me flashed some kind of card and informed me that he and his accomplices were "special deputies"
for the Northern Virginia Human Relations Council. They were searching for firearms, he said.
I couldn't believe it. It just couldn't be happening. Then I saw that they were wearing strips of green cloth
tied around their left arms.
As they dumped the contents of drawers on the floor and pulled luggage from the closet,
they were ignoring things that robbers
wouldn't have passed up: my brand-new electric razor, a valuable gold pocket watch,
a milk bottle full of dimes. They were looking for
firearms!
Right
after the Cohen Act was passed, all of us in the Organization had cached our guns and ammunition where they weren't likely
to
be found. Those in my unit had carefully greased our weapons, sealed them in an oil drum, and spent all of one tedious
weekend
burying the drum in an eight-foot-deep pit 200 miles away in the woods of western Pennsylvania.
But I had kept one gun out of the cache. I had hidden my .357 magnum revolver and 50 rounds
of ammunition inside the door frame
between the kitchen and the living room. By pulling out two loosened nails and removing
one board from the door frame I could get to
my revolver in about two minutes flat if I ever needed it. I had timed myself.
But a police search would never uncover it. And these inexperienced Blacks couldn't find
it in a million years.
After the three who were conducting the search had looked
in all the obvious places, they began slitting open my mattress and the
sofa cushions. I protested vigorously at this
and briefly considered trying to put up a fight.
About that time there
was a commotion out in the hallway. Another group of searchers had found a rifle hidden under a bed in the
apartment
of the young couple down the hall. They had both been handcuffed and were being forcibly escorted toward the stairs.
Both
were clad only in their underwear, and the young woman was complaining loudly about the fact that her baby was being left
alone in the apartment.
Another man walked into my apartment. He was
a Caucasian, though with an unusually dark complexion. He also wore a green
armband, and he carried an attaché
case and a clipboard.
The Blacks greeted him deferentially and reported
the negative result of their search: "No guns here, Mr. Tepper."
Tepper ran his finger down the list of names and apartment numbers on his clipboard until he came to mine. He frowned. "This
is a
bad one," he said. "He has a racist record. Been cited by the Council twice. And he owned eight firearms
which were never turned in."
Tepper opened his attaché case and took out a small, black object about the
size of a pack of cigarettes which was attachéd by a
long cord to an electronic instrument in the case. He began
moving the black object in long sweeps back and forth over the walls,
while the attaché case emitted a dull, rumbling
noise. The rumble rose in pitch as the gadget approached the light switch, but Tepper
convinced himself that the change
was caused by the metal junction box and conduit buried in the wall. He continued his methodical
sweep.
As he swept over the left side of the kitchen door frame the rumble jumped to a piercing
shriek. Tepper grunted excitedly, and one of
the Negroes went out and came back a few seconds later with a sledge hammer
and a pry bar. It took the Negro substantially less
than two minutes after that to find my gun.
I was handcuffed without further ado and led outside. Altogether, four of us were arrested in my apartment
building. In addition to the
couple down the hall, there was an elderly man from the fourth floor. They hadn't found
a firearm in his apartment, but they had found
four shotgun shells on his closet shelf. Ammunition was also illegal.
Mr Tepper and some of his "deputies" had more searches to carry out, but three
large Blacks with baseball bats and knives were left
to guard us in front of the apartment building.
The four of us were forced to sit on the cold sidewalk, in various states of undress,
for more than an hour until a police van finally
came for us.
As
other residents of the apartment building left for work, they eyed us curiously. We were all shivering, and the young woman
from
down the hall was weeping uncontrollably.
One man stopped to
ask what it was all about. One of our guards brusquely explained that we were all under arrest for possessing
illegal
weapons. The man stared at us and shook his head disapprovingly.
Then
the Black pointed to me and said: "And that one's a racist." Still shaking his head, the man moved on.
Herb Jones, who used to belong to the Organization and was one of the most outspoken of
the "they'll-never-get-my-gun" people
before the Cohen Act, walked by quickly with his eyes averted. His apartment
had been searched too, but Herb was clean. He had
been practically the first man in town to turn his guns over to the
police after the passage of the Cohen Act made him liable to ten
years imprisonment in a Federal penitentiary if he kept
them.
That was the penalty the four of us on the sidewalk were facing.
It didn't work out that way, though. The reason it didn't is that the
raids which were carried out all over the country
that day netted a lot more fish than the System had counted on: more than 800,000
persons were arrested.
At first the news media tried hard to work up enough public sentiment against us so that
the arrests would stick. The fact that there
weren't enough jail cells in the country to hold us all could be remedied
by herding us into barbed-wire enclosures outdoors until new
prison facilities could be readied, the newspapers suggested.
In freezing weather!
I still remember the Washington Post headline the
next day: "Fascist-Racist Conspiracy Smashed, Illegal Weapons Seized." But not
even the brainwashed American
public could fully accept the idea that nearly a million of their fellow citizens had been engaged in a
secret, armed
conspiracy.
As more and more details of the raids leaked out, public
restlessness grew. One of the details which bothered people was that the
raiders had, for the most part, exempted Black
neighborhoods from the searches. The explanation given at first for this was that since
"racists" were the
ones primarily suspected of harboring firearms, there was relatively little need to search Black homes.
The peculiar logic of this explanation broke down when it turned out that a number of persons
who could hardly be considered either
"racists" or "fascists" had been caught up in the raids. Among
them were two prominent liberal newspaper columnists who had earlier
been in the forefront of the antigun crusade, four
Negro Congressmen (they lived in White neighborhoods), and an embarrassingly
large number of government officials.
The list of persons to be raided, it turned out, had been compiled primarily from firearms
sales records which all gun dealers had
been required to keep. If a person had turned a gun in to the police after the
Cohen Act was passed, his name was marked off the
list. If he hadn't it stayed on, and he was raided on November 9-unless
he lived in a Black neighborhood.
In addition, certain categories of
people were raided whether they had ever purchased a firearm from a dealer or not. All the
members of the Organization
were raided.
The government's list of suspects was so large that a number
of "responsible" civilian groups were deputized to assist in the raids. l
guess the planners in the System
thought that most of the people on their list had either sold their guns privately before the Cohen
Act, or had disposed
of them in some other way. Probably they were expecting only about a quarter as many people to be arrested
as actually
were.
Anyway, the whole thing soon became so embarrassing and so unwieldy
that most of the arrestees were turned loose again within a
week. The group I was with-some 600 of us-was held for three
days in a high school gymnasium in Alexandria before being released.
During those three days we were fed only four times,
and we got virtually no sleep.
But the police did get mug shots, fingerprints,
and personal data from everyone. When we were released we were told that we were
still technically under arrest and could
expect to be picked up again for prosecution at any time.
The media kept
yelling for prosecutions for awhile, but the issue was gradually allowed to die. Actually, the System had bungled the
affair
rather badly.
For a few days we were all more frightened and glad to
be free than anything else. A lot of people in the Organization dropped out
right then and there. They didn't want to
take any more chances.
Others stayed in but used the Gun Raids as an
excuse for inactivity. Now that the patriotic element in the population had been
disarmed, they argued, we were all at
the mercy of the System and had to be much more careful. They wanted us to cease all public
recruiting activities and
"go underground."
As it turned out, what they really had in
mind was for the Organization to restrict itself henceforth to "safe" activities, such activities to
consist
principally in complaining-better yet, whispering-to one another about how bad things were.
The more militant members, on the other hand, were for digging up our weapons caches and unleashing a program
of terror against
the System immediately, carrying out executions of Federal judges, newspaper editors, legislators,
and other System figures. The
time was ripe for such action, they felt, because in the wake of the Gun Raids we could
win public sympathy for such a campaign
against tyranny.
It is hard
to say now whether the militants were right. Personally, I think they were wrong-although I counted myself as one of them
at
the time. We could certainly have killed a number of the creatures responsible for America's ills, but I believe we
would have lost in
the long run.
For one thing, the Organization
just wasn't well disciplined enough for waging terror against the System. There were too many
cowards and blabbermouths
among us. Informers, fools, weaklings, and irresponsible jerks would have been our undoing.
For a second thing, I am
sure now that we were overoptimistic in our judgment of the mood of the public. What we mistook as general
resentment
against the System's abrogation of civil rights during the Gun Raids was more a passing wave of uneasiness resulting
from
all the commotion involved in the mass arrests.
As soon as the public
had been reassured by the media that they were in no danger, that the government was cracking down only on
the "racists,
fascists, and other anti-social elements" who had kept illegal weapons, most relaxed again and went back to their TV
and
funny papers.
As we began to realize this, we were more discouraged
than ever. We had based all our plans-in fact, the whole rationale of the
Organization-on the assumption that Americans
were inherently opposed to tyranny, and that when the System became oppressive
enough they could be led to overthrow
it. We had badly underestimated the degree to which materialism had corrupted our fellow
citizens, as well as the extent
to which their feelings could be manipulated by the mass media.
As long
as the government is able to keep the economy somehow gasping and wheezing along, the people can be conditioned to
accept
any outrage. Despite the continuing inflation and the gradually declining standard of living, most Americans are still able
to
keep their bellies full today, and we must simply face the fact that that's
the only thing which counts with most of them.
Discouraged and uncertain
as we were, though, we began laying new plans for the future. First, we decided to maintain our program
of public recruiting.
In fact, we intensified it and deliberately made our propaganda as provocative as possible. The purpose was not
only
to attract new members with a militant disposition, but at the same time to purge the Organization of the fainthearts and
hobbyists-the "talkers."
We also tightened up on discipline.
Anyone who missed a scheduled meeting twice in a row was expelled. Anyone who failed to carry
out a work assignment was
expelled. Anyone who violated our rule against loose talk about Organizational matters was expelled.
We had made up our
minds to have an Organization that would be ready the next time the System provided an opportunity to strike.
The shame
of our failure to act, indeed, our inability to act, in 1989 tormented us and drove us without mercy. It was probably the
single most important factor in steeling our wills to whip the Organization into fighting trim, despite all obstacles.
Another thing that helped-at least, with me-was the constant threat of re-arrest and prosecution.
Even if I had wanted to give it all up
and join the TV-and-funnies crowd, I couldn't. I could make no plans for a "normal,"
civilian future, never knowing when I might be
prosecuted under the Cohen Act. (The Constitutional guarantee of a speedy
trial, of course, has been "reinterpreted" by the courts
until it means no more than our Constitutional guarantee
of the right to keep and bear arms.)
So I, and I know this also applies
to George and Katherine and Henry, threw myself without reservation into work for the Organization
and made only plans
for the future of the Organization. My private life had ceased to matter.
Whether the Organization actually is ready, I guess we'll find out soon enough. So far, so good, though. Our plan for avoiding
another
mass roundup, like 1989, seems to have worked.
Early last
year we began putting a number of new members, unknown to the political police, into police agencies and various quasi-
official organizations, such as the human relations councils. They served as our early-warning network and otherwise kept
us
generally informed of the System's plans against us.
We were
surprised at the ease with which we were able to set up and operate this network. We never would have gotten away with it
back in the days of J. Edgar Hoover.
It is ironic that while the Organization
has always warned the public against the dangers of racial integration of our police, this has
now turned out to be a
blessing in disguise for us. The "equal opportunity" boys have really done a wonderful wrecking job on the FBI
and other investigative agencies, and their efficiency is way down as a result. Still, we'd better not get over-confident
or careless.
Omigod! It's 4:00 AM. Got to get some sleep!
Chapter II
September 18, 1991: These last two days have really been a comedy of errors, and today the comedy nearly became
a tragedy.
When the others were finally able to wake me tip yesterday, we put our heads together to figure what to do.
The first thing, we all
agreed, was to arm ourselves and then to find a better hideout.
Our unit-that is, the four of us-leased this apartment under a false name nearly six months ago, just to have
it available when we
needed it. (We just beat the new law which requires a landlord to furnish the police with the social
security number of every new
tenant, just like when a person opens a bank account.) Because we've stayed away from the
apartment until now, I'm sure the
political police haven't connected any of us with this address.
But it's too small for all of us to live here for any length of time, and it doesn't offer enough privacy from
the neighbors. We were too
anxious to save money when we picked this place.
Money is our main problem now. We thought to stock this place with food, medicine, tools, spare clothing, maps-even a bicycle-but
we forgot about cash. Two days ago, when the word came that they were starting the arrests again, we had no chance to withdraw
money from the bank; it was too early in the morning. Now our accounts are surely frozen.
So we have only the cash that was in our pockets at the time: a little over $70 altogether (Note to the reader:
The "dollar" was the
basic monetary unit in the United States in the Old Era. In 1991, two dollars would buy
a half-kilo loaf of bread or about a quarter of a
kilo of sugar.)
And no transportation except for the bicycle. According to plan, we had all abandoned our cars, since the police would be
looking for
them. Even if we had kept a car, we would have a problem trying to get fuel for it. Since our gasoline ration
cards are magnetically
coded with our social security numbers, when we stuck them into the computer at a filling station
they would show blocked quotas-
and instantaneously tell the Feds monitoring the central computer where we were.
Yesterday George, who is our contact with Unit 9, took the bicycle and pedaled over to
talk to them about the situation. They're a little
better off than we are, but not much. The six of them have about $400,
but they're crowded into a hole in the wall which is even less
satisfactory than ours, according to George.
They do have four automobiles and a fair-sized store of fuel, though. Carl Smith, who
is with them, made some very convincing
counterfeit license plates for everyone with a car in his unit. We should have
done the same, but it's too late now.
They offered George one car and
$50 cash, which he gratefully accepted. They didn't want to let go of any of their gasoline, though,
other than the tankful
in the car they gave us.
That still left us with no money to rent another
place, no} enough gas to make the round trip to our weapons cache in Pennsylvania
and back. We didn't even have enough
money to buy a week's groceries when our food stock ran out, and that would be in about
another four days.
The network will be established in ten days, but until then we are on our own. Furthermore,
when our unit joins the network it is
expected to have already solved its supply problems and be ready to go into action
in concert with the other units.
If we had more money we could solve
all our problems, including the fuel problem. Gasoline is always available on the black market,
of course-at $10 a gallon,
nearly twice what it costs at a filling station.
We stewed over our situation
until this afternoon. Then, desperate not to waste any more time, we finally decided to go out and take
some money. Henry
and I were stuck with the chore, since we couldn't afford for George to get arrested. He's the only one who
knows the
network code.
We had Katherine do a pretty good makeup job on us first.
She's into amateur theater and has the equipment and know-how to really
change a person's appearance.
My inclination was just to walk into the first liquor store
we came to, knock the manager on the head with a brick, and scoop up the
money from the cash register.
Henry wouldn't go along with that, though. He said we couldn't use means which contradicted
our ends. If we begin preying on the
public to support ourselves, we will be viewed as a gang of common criminals, regardless
of how lofty our aims are. Worse, we will
eventually begin to think of ourselves the same way.
Henry looks at everything in terms of our ideology. If something doesn't fit, he'll have nothing to do with
it.
In a way this may seem impractical, but I think maybe he's right.
Only by making our beliefs into a living faith which guides us from
day to day can we maintain the moral strength to
overcome the obstacles and hardships which lie ahead.
Anyway, he convinced
me that if we are going to rob liquor stores we have to do it in a socially conscious way. If we are going to cave
in
people's heads with bricks, they must be people who deserve it.
By comparing
the liquor store listings in the Yellow Pages of the telephone directory with a list of supporting members of the Northern
Virginia Human Relations Council which had been filched for us by the girl we sent over there to do volunteer work for them,
we
finally settled on Berman's Liquors and Wines, Saul I. Berman, proprietor.
There were no bricks handy, so we equipped ourselves with blackjacks consisting of good-sized bars of Ivory soap inside
long, strong
ski socks. Henry also tucked a sheath knife into his belt.
We parked about a block and a half from Berman's Liquors, around the corner. When we went in there were no customers in
the
store. A Black was at the cash register, tending the store.
Henry
asked him for a bottle of vodka on a high shelf behind the counter. When he turned around I let him have it at the base of
the
skull with my "Ivory special." He dropped silently to the floor and remained motionless.
Henry calmly emptied the cash register and a cigar box under the counter which held the
larger bills. We walked out and headed for
the car We had gotten a little over $800. It had been surprisingly easy.
Three stores down Henry suddenly stopped and pointed out the sign on the door: "Berman's
Deli." Without a moment's hesitation he
pushed open the door and walked in. Spurred on by a sudden, reckless impulse
I followed him instead of trying to stop him.
Berman himself was behind
the counter, at the back. Henry lured him out by asking the price of an item near the front of the store
which Berman
couldn't see clearly from behind the counter.
As he passed me, I let
him have it in the back of the head as hard as I could. I felt the bar of soap shatter from the force of the blow.
Berman
went down yelling at the top of his lungs. Then he started crawling rapidly toward the back of the store, screaming loudly
enough to wake the dead. I was completely unnerved by the racket and stood frozen.
Not Henry though. He leaped onto Berman's back, seized him by the hair, and cut his throat from ear to ear
in one, swift motion.
The silence lasted about one second. Then a fat, grotesque-looking woman of about 60 -probably
Berman's wife- came charging out
of the back room waving a meat cleaver and emitting an ear-piercing shriek.
Henry let fly at her with a large jar of kosher pickles and scored a direct hit. She went
down in a spray of pickles and broken glass.
Henry then cleaned out the cash register, looked for another cigar box under
the counter, found it, and scooped the bills out.
I snapped out of my
trance and followed Henry out the front door as the fat woman started shrieking again. Henry had to hold me by
the arm
to keep me from running down the sidewalk.
It didn't take us but about
15 seconds to walk back to the car, but it seemed more like 15 minutes. I was terrified. It was more than an
hour before
I had stopped shaking and gotten enough of a grip on myself to talk without stuttering. Some terrorist!
Altogether we got $1426-enough to buy groceries for the four of us for more than two months. But one thing
was decided then and
there: Henry will have to be the one to rob any more liquor stores. I don't have the nerves for
it-although I had thought I was doing all
right until Berman started yelling.
September 19: Looking back over what I've written, it's hard to believe these things have really happened. Until the Gun
Raids two
years ago, my life was about as normal as anyone's can be in these times.
Even after I was arrested and lost my position at the laboratory, I was still able to live pretty
much like everyone else by doing
consulting work and special jobs for a couple of the electronics firms in this area.
The only thing out of the ordinary about my lifestyle
was my work for the Organization.
Now everything is chaotic and uncertain. When I think about the future I become depressed. It's impossible
to know what will happen,
but it's certain that I'll never be able to go back to the quiet, orderly kind of life I had
before.
Looks like what I'm writing is the beginning of a diary. Perhaps
it will help me to write down what's happened and what my thoughts
are each day. Maybe it will add some focus to things,
some order, and make it easier for me to keep a grip on myself and become
reconciled to this new way of life.
It's funny how all the excitement I felt the first night here is gone. All I feel now
is apprehension. Maybe the change of scenery
tomorrow will improve my outlook. Henry and I will be driving to Pennsylvania
for our guns, while George and Katherine try to find us
a more suitable place to live.
Today we made the preparations for our trip. Originally, the plan called for us to use public transportation
to the little town of
Bellefonte and then hike the last six miles into the woods to our cache. Now that we have a car,
however, we'll use that instead.
We figured we only need about five gallons of gasoline, in addition to that already
in the tank, to make the round trip. To be on the
safe side, we bought two five-gallon cans of gas from the taxi-fleet
operator in Alexandria who always bootlegs some of his allotment.
As
rationing has increased during the last few years, so has petty corruption of every sort. I guess a lot of the large-scale
graft in the
government which Watergate revealed a few years back has finally filtered down to the man in the street.
When people began
realizing that the big-shot politicians were crooked, they were more inclined to try to cheat the System
a little themselves. All the new
rationing red tape has just exacerbated the tendency-as has the growing percentage of
non-Whites in every level of the bureaucracy.
The Organization has been one of the main critics of this corruption, but
I can now see that it gives us an important advantage. If
everybody obeyed the law and did everything by the book, it
would be nearly impossible for an underground group to exist.
Not only
would we not be able to buy gasoline, but a thousand other bureaucratic obstacles with which the System increasingly hems
the lives of our fellow citizens would be insurmountable for us. As it is, a bribe to a local official here or a few dollars
under the
counter to a clerk or secretary there will allow us to get around many of the government regulations which
would otherwise trip us up.
The closer public morality in America approaches that of a banana republic, the easier it
will be for us to operate. Of course, with
everyone having his hand out for a bribe, we'll need plenty of money.
Looking at it philosophically, one can't avoid the conclusion that it is corruption, not
tyranny, which leads to the overthrow of
governments. A strong and vigorous government, no matter how oppressive, usually
need not fear revolution. But a corrupt,
inefficient, decadent government-even a benevolent one-is always ripe for revolution.
The System we are fighting is both corrupt and
oppressive, and we should thank God for the corruption.
The silence about us in the newspapers is worrisome. The Berman thing the other day wasn't
connected to us, of course, and it was
given only a paragraph in today's Post. Robberies of that sort-even where there
is killing involved-are so common these days that
they merit no more attention than a traffic accident.
But the fact that the government launched a massive roundup of known Organization members
last Wednesday and that nearly all of
us, more than 2,000 persons, have managed to slip through their fingers and drop
out of sight-why isn't that in the papers? The news
media are collaborating closely with the political police, of course,
but what is their strategy against us?
There was one small Associated
Press article on a back page of yesterday's paper mentioning the arrest of nine "racists" in Chicago
and four
in Los Angeles on Wednesday. The article said that all 13 who were arrested were members of the same organization-
evidently
ours-but no further details were given. Curious!
Are they keeping quiet
about the failure of the roundup so as not to embarrass the government? That's not like them.
Probably, they're a little
paranoid about the ease with which we evaded the roundup. They may have fears that some substantial
portion of the public
is in sympathy with us and is aiding us, and they don't want to say anything that will give encouragement to our
sympathizers.
We must be careful that this false appearance of "business as usual" doesn't
mislead us into relaxing our vigilance. We can be sure
that the political police are in a crash program to find us. It
will be a relief when the network is established and we can once again
receive regular reports from our informants as
to just what the rascals are up to.
Meanwhile, our security rests primarily
in our changed appearances and identities. We've all changed our hair styles and either dyed
or bleached our hair. I've begun wearing new glasses with heavy frames instead of my old frameless ones, and Katherine
has
switched from her contact lenses to glasses. Henry has undergone the most radical transformation, by shaving off
his beard and
mustache. And we all have pretty convincing fake driver's licenses, although they won't stand up if they
are ever checked against
state records.
Whenever any of us has to
do something like the robberies last week, Katherine can do a quick-change job and temporarily give him
a third identity.
For that she has wigs and plastic gimmicks which fit into the nostrils and inside the mouth and change the whole
structure
of a person's face-and even his voice. They're not comfortable, but they can be tolerated for a couple of hours at a time,
just
as I can do without my glasses for a while if necessary.
Tomorrow
will be a long, hard day.
Chapter III
September21,
1991. Every muscle in my body aches. Yesterday we spent 10 hours hiking, digging, and carrying loads of weapons
through
the woods. This evening we moved all our supplies from the old apartment to our new hideout.
It was a little before noon yesterday when we reached the turnoff near Bellefonte and left the highway. We
drove as close to our
cache as we could, but the old mining road we had used three years earlier was blocked and impassable
more than a mile short of
the point where we intended to park. The bank above the road
had collapsed, and it would have taken a bulldozer to clear the way. (Note to the reader: Throughout his diaries
Turner used so-called
"English units" of measurement, which were still in common use in North America during
the last years of the Old Era. For the reader
not familiar with these units, a "mile" was
1.6 kilometers, a "gallon" was 3.8 liters, a "foot" was .30 meter,
a "yard" was .91 meter, an "inc. ' was 2.5 centimeters, and a "pound"
was the weight of .4s
kilogram-approximately.)
e. And it took three round trips to get
everything
to the car. We brought shovels, a rope, and a couple of large canvas mail sacks (courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service), but,
as it turned out, these tools were woefully inadequate for the task.
Hiking from the car to the cache with our shovels on our shoulders was actually refreshing, after the long drive up from
Washington.
The day was pleasantly cool, the autumn woods were beautiful, and the old dirt road, though heavily overgrown,
provided easy
walking most of the way.
Even digging down to the
top of the oil drum (actually a 50-gallon chemical drum with a removable lid) in which we had sealed our
weapons wasn't
too bad. The ground was fairly soft, and it took us less than an hour to excavate a five-foot-deep pit and tie our rope
to the handles which had been welded to the lid of the drum.
Then our
trouble began. The two of us tugged on the rope as hard as we could, but the drum wouldn't budge an inch. It was as if it
had been set in concrete.
Although the full drum weighed nearly 400
pounds, two of us had been able to lower it into the pit without undue difficulty three years
ago. At that time, of course,
there had been several inches of clearance all around it. Now the earth had settled and was packed
tightly against the
metal.
We gave up trying to get the drum out of the hole and decided
to open it where it was. To do that we had to dig for nearly another
hour, enlarging the hole and clearing a few inches
all around the top of the drum so we could get our hands on the locking band
which secured the lid. Even so, l had to
go into the hole headfirst, with Henry holding my legs.
Although the
outside of the drum had been painted with asphalt to prevent corrosion, the locking lever itself was thoroughly rusted,
and I broke the only screwdriver we had trying to pry it loose. Finally, after much pounding, I was able to pry the lever
out from the
drum with the end of a shovel. With the locking band loosened, however, the lid remained as tightly in place
as ever, apparently stuck
to the drum by the asphalt coating we had applied.
Working upside down in the narrow hole was difficult and exhausting. We had no tool satisfactory for wedging under the lip
of the lid
and prying it up. Finally, almost in desperation, I once again tied the rope to one of the handles on the
lid. Henry and I gave a hard
tug, and the lid popped off!
Then it
was just a matter of my going headfirst into the hole again, supporting myself with one arm on the edge of the drum, and
passing the carefully wrapped bundles of weapons up past my body so that Henry could reach them. Some of the larger bundles-and
that included six sealed tins of ammunition ere both too heavy and too bulky for this method and had to be hauled up by
rope.
Needless to say, by the time we had the
drum empty I was completely pooped. My arms ached, my legs were unsteady, and my
clothing was drenched with perspiration.
But we still had to carry more than 300 pounds of munitions half a mile through dense
woods, uphill to the road, and
then more than a mile back to the car.
With proper pack frames to distribute
the loads on our backs we might have carried everything out in one trip. It could have been
done easily in two trips.
But with only the awkward mail sacks, which we had to carry in our arms, it took three excruciatingly painful
trips.
We had to stop every hundred yards or so and put our loads down for a minute, and the
last two trips were made in total darkness.
Anticipating a daylight operation, we hadn't even brought a flashlight. If
we don't do a better job of planning our operations in the
future, we have some rough times ahead!
On the way back to Washington we stopped at a small roadside cafe near Hagerstown for sandwiches and coffee.
There were about
a dozen people in the place, and the 11 o'clock news was just beginning on the TV set behind the counter
when we walked in. It was
a news broadcast I'll never forget.
The
big story of the day was what the Organization had been up to in Chicago. The System, it seems, had killed one of our people,
and in turn we had killed three of theirs and then engaged in a spectacular - and successful - gunfight with the authorities.
Nearly the
whole newscast was occupied in recounting these events.
We already knew from the papers that nine of our members had been arrested in Chicago last week, and apparently they had
had a
rough time in the Cook County Jail, where one of them had died. It was impossible to be sure exactly what had happened
from what
the TV announcer said, but if the System had behaved true to form the authorities had stuck our people individually
into cells full of
Blacks and then shut their eyes and ears to what ensued.
That has long been the System's extra-legal way of punishing our people when they can't pin anything on them that will "stick"
in the
courts. It's a more ghastly and dreadful punishment than anything which ever took place in a medieval torture
chamber or in the
cellars of the KGB. And they can get away with it because the news media usually won't even admit that
it happens. After all, if you're
trying to convince the public that the races are really equal, how can you admit that
it's worse to be locked in a cell full of Black
criminals than in a cell full of White ones?
Anyway, the day after our man-the newscaster said his name was Carl Hodges, someone I've not heard of before-was
killed, the
Chicago Organization fulfilled a promise they'd made more than a year ago, in the event one of our people
was ever seriously hurt in
a Chicago jail. They ambushed the Cook County sheriff outside his home and blew his head off
with a shotgun. They left a note
pinned to his body which read: "This is for Carl Hodges."
That was last Saturday night. On Sunday the System was up in arms. The sheriff of Cook
County had been a political bigwig, a front-
rank shabbos goy, and they were really raising hell.
Although they broadcast the news only to the Chicago area on Sunday, they trotted out several pillars of the
community there to
denounce the assassination and the Organization in special TV appearances. One of the spokesmen was
a "responsible
conservative," and another was the head of the Chicago Jewish community. All of them described
the Organization as a "gang of
racist bigots" and called on "all right-thinking Chicagoans" to cooperate
with the political police in apprehending the "racists" who had
killed the sheriff.
Well, early this morning the responsible conservative lost both his legs and suffered severe internal injuries
when a bomb wired to the
ignition of his car exploded. The Jewish spokesman was even less fortunate. Someone walked up
to him while he was waiting for an
elevator in the lobby of his office building, pulled a hatchet from under his coat,
cleaved the good Jew's head from crown to shoulder
blades, then disappeared in the rush-hour crowd. The Organization
immediately claimed responsibility for both acts.
After that, it really
hit the fan. The governor of Illinois ordered National Guard troops into Chicago to help local police and FBI agents
hunt
for Organization members. Thousands of persons were being stopped on Chicago streets today and asked to prove their
identity.
The System's paranoia is really showing.
This afternoon three men were
cornered in a small apartment building in Cicero. The whole block was surrounded by troops, while
the trapped men shot
it out with the police. TV crews were all over the place, anxious not to miss the kill.
One of the men in the apartment apparently had a sniper's rifle, because two Black cops more than a block away
were picked off
before it was realized that Blacks were being singled out as targets and uniformed White cops were not
being shot at. This White
immunity apparently was not extended to the plainclothes political police, however, because
an FBI agent was killed by a burst of sub-
machine-gun fire from the apartment when he momentarily exposed himself to
hurl a teargas grenade through a window.
We watched breathlessly as this
action was shown on the TV screen, but the real climax came for us when the apartment was
stormed and found empty. A
quick room-by-room search of the building also failed to turn up the gunmen.
Disappointment at this outcome was evident in the TV newsman's voice, but a man sitting at the
other end of the counter from us
whistled and clapped when it was announced that the "racists" had apparently
slipped away. The waitress smiled at this, and it
seemed clear to us that, while there certainly was no unanimous approval
for the Organization's actions in Chicago, neither was there
unanimous disapproval.
Almost as if the System anticipated this reaction to the afternoon's events, the news scene switched to Washington,
where the
attorney general of the United States had called a special news conference. The attorney general announced
to the nation that the
Federal government was throwing all its police agencies into the effort to root out the Organization.
He described us as "depraved,
racist criminals" who were motivated solely by hatred and who wanted to "undo
all the progress toward true equality" which had been
made by the System in recent years.
All citizens were warned to be alert and to assist the government in breaking up the "racist conspiracy."
Anyone observing any
suspicious action, especially on the part of a stranger, was to report it immediately to the nearest
FBI office or Human Relations
Council.
And then he said something
very indiscreet, which really betrayed how worried the System is. He stated that any citizen found to be
concealing information
about us or offering us any comfort or assistance "would be dealt with severely." Those were his very words-
the sort of thing one might expect to hear in the Soviet Union, but which would ring harshly on most American ears, despite
the best
propaganda efforts of the media to justify it.
All the
risks taken by our people in Chicago were more than rewarded by provoking the attorney general into such a psychological
blunder. This incident also proves the value of keeping the System off balance with surprise attacks. If the System had
kept its cool
and thought more carefully about a response to our Chicago actions, it not only would have avoided a blunder
which will bring us
hundreds of new recruits, but it would probably have figured a way to win much wider public support
for its fight against us.
The news program concluded with an announcement
that an hour-long "special" on the "racist conspiracy" would be broadcast
Tuesday night (i.e., tonight).
We've just finished watching that "special," and it was a real hatchet job, full of errors and outright
invention
and not very convincing, we all felt. But one thing is certain: the media blackout is over. Chicago has given the Organization
instant celebrity status, and we must certainly be the number-one topic of conversation everywhere in the nation.
As last night's TV news ended, Henry and I choked down the last of our meal and stumbled
outside. I was filled with emotions:
excitement, elation over the success of our people in Chicago, nervousness about
being one of the targets of a nationwide manhunt,
and chagrin that none of our units in the Washington area had shown
the initiative of our Chicago units.
I was itching to do something, and
the first thing that occurred to me was to try to make some sort of contact with the fellow in the
cafe who had seemed
sympathetic to us. I wanted to take some leaflets from our car and put one under the windshield wiper of every
vehicle
in the parking lot.
Henry, who always keeps a cool head, emphatically
vetoed the idea. As we sat in the car he explained that it was sheer folly to risk
calling any attention whatever to
ourselves until we had completed our present mission of safely delivering our load of weapons to our
unit. Furthermore,
he reminded me, it would be a breach of Organization discipline for a member of an underground unit to engage in
any
direct recruiting activity, however minimal. That function has been relegated to the "legal" units.
The underground units consist of members who are known to the authorities and have been
marked for arrest. Their function is to
destroy the System through direct action.
The "legal" units consist of members not presently known to the System. (Indeed, it would be impossible
to prove that most of them
are members. In this we have taken a page from the communists' book.) Their role is to provide
us with intelligence, funding, legal
defense, and other support.
Whenever
an "illegal" spots a potential recruit, he is supposed to turn the information over to a "legal," who
will approach the prospect
and sound him out. The "legals" are also supposed to handle all the low-risk propaganda
activity, such as leafleting. Strictly speaking,
we should not even have had any Organization leaflets with us.
We waited until the man who had applauded the escape of our members in Chicago came out
and got in a pickup truck. We drove by
him and noted his license number as we pulled out of the lot. When the network
is established, the information will go to the proper
person for a follow-up.
When we arrived back at the apartment, George and Katherine were as excited as Henry and 1. They had also seen the TV
newscast. Despite the exertions of the day, I could no more sleep than they, and we all piled back in the car, George and
Katherine
sharing the back seat with part of our greasy cargo, and went to an all-night drive-in. We could stay in the
car and talk safely there
without arousing suspicion, and that's what we did-until the early-morning hours.
One thing we decided was that we would move immediately to new quarters George and Katherine
located yesterday. The old
apartment just wasn't satisfactory. The walls were so thin that we had to whisper to one another
to avoid being overheard by our
neighbors. And I'm sure that our irregular
hours had already caused the neighbors to speculate on just what we do for a living. With
the System warning everyone
to report suspicious-looking strangers, it had become downright dangerous to us to remain in a place
with so little privacy.
The new place is much better in every way except the rent. We have a whole building to
ourselves. It is actually a cement-block
commercial building which once housed a small machine shop in a single, garage-like
room downstairs, with offices and a storeroom
upstairs.
The place
has been condemned, because it lies on the right-of-way for a new access road to the highway which has been in the
planning
stages for the last four years. Like all government projects these days, this one is also bogged down-probably permanently.
Although hundreds of thousands of men are being paid to build new highways, none are actually being built. In the last five
years
most of the roads in the country have deteriorated badly, and, although one always sees repair crews standing around,
nothing ever
seems to get fixed.
The government hasn't even gotten
around to actually purchasing the land it has condemned for the new highway, leaving the
property owners holding the
bag. Legally, the owner of this building isn't supposed to rent it, but he evidently has an arrangement with
someone
in city hall. The advantage for us is that there is no official record of the occupancy of the building- no social security
numbers for the police, no county building inspectors or fire marshals coming around to check. George just has to take $600-in
cash-
to the owner once a month.
George thinks the owner, a wrinkled
old Armenian with a heavy accent, is convinced we intend to use the place for manufacturing
illegal drugs or storing
stolen goods and doesn't want to know the details. I suppose that's good, because it means he won't be
snooping around.
The place really looks like hell on the outside. It's surrounded on three sides by a sagging,
rusty chain-link fence. The grounds are
littered with discarded water heaters, stripped-down engine blocks, and rusting
junk of every description. The concrete parking area
in front is broken and black with old crankcase oil.
There is a huge sign across the front of the building which has come loose at one end.
It says: "Welding and Machining, J.T. Smith &
Sons." Half the window panes on the ground floor are missing,
but all the ground-floor windows are boarded up on the inside anyway.
The
neighborhood is a thoroughly grubby light manufacturing area. Next door to us is a small trucking company garage and
warehouse.
Trucks are coming and going at all hours of the night, which means the cops will not have their suspicions aroused if they
see us driving in this area at odd hours.
So, having decided to make
the move, we did it today. Since there was no electricity, water, or gas in the new place, it was my job to
solve the
heating, lighting, and plumbing problems while the others moved our things.
Restoring the water was easy, as soon as I had located the water meter and gotten the lid off. After turning the water on
I dragged
some heavy junk over the meter lid so no one from the water company would be likely to find it, in case anyone
ever came looking.
The electric problem was a good deal more difficult. There were still lines up from the building to
a power pole, but the current had
been shut off at the meter, which was on an outside wall. I had to carefully knock
a hole through the wall behind the meter, from the
inside, and then wire jumpers across the terminals. That took me the
better part of the day.
The rest of my day was occupied in carefully
covering all the chinks in the boards over the downstairs windows and in tacking heavy
cardboard over the upstairs windows,
so no ray of light can be seen from the building at night.
We still have
no heat and no kitchen facilities beyond the hot-plate we brought over from the other place. But at least the john works
now, and our living quarters are tolerably clean, if rather bare. We can continue sleeping on the floor in our sleeping
bags for a while,
and we'll buy a couple of electric heaters and some other amenities in the next few days.
Chapter IV
September 30, 1991. There's been so much work in
the last week that I've had no time to write. Our plan for setting up the network
was simple and straightforward, but
actually doing it has required a terrific effort, at least on my part. The difficulties I've had to
overcome have emphasized
for me once again the fact that even the best-laid plans can be dangerously misleading unless they have
built into them
a large amount of flexibility to allow for unforeseen problems.
Basically,
the network linking all the Organization's units together depends on two modes of communication: human couriers and
highly
specialized radio transmissions. I'm responsible not only for our own unit's radio receiving equipment but also for the overall
maintenance and supervision of the receivers of the eleven other units in the Washington area and the transmitters of Washington
Field Command and Unit 9. What really messed up my week was the last-minute decision at WFC to equip Unit 2 with a transmitter
too. I had to do the equipping.
The way the network is set up, all
communications requiring consultation or lengthy briefing or situation reports are done orally, face-
to-face. Now that
the telephone company maintains a computerized record of all local calls as well as long-distance calls, and with
the
political police monitoring so many conversations, telephones are ruled out for our use except in unusual emergencies.
On the other hand, messages of a standard nature, which can be easily and briefly coded, are usually transmitted by radio.
The
Organization put a great deal of thought into developing a "dictionary" of nearly 800 different, standardized
messages, each of which
can be specified by a three-digit number.
Thus, at a particular time, the number "2006" might specify the message: "The operation scheduled by Unit
6 is to be postponed until
further notice." One person in each unit has memorized the entire message dictionary
and is responsible for knowing what the current
number coding of the dictionary is at all times. In our unit that person
is George.
Actually, it's not as hard as it sounds. The message dictionary
is arranged in a very orderly way, and once one has memorized its
basic structure it's not too difficult to memorize
the whole thing. The number-coding of the messages is randomly shifted every few
days, but that doesn't mean that George
has to learn the dictionary all over again; he just needs to know the new numerical
designation of a single message,
and he can then work out the designations for all the others in his head.
Using this coding system allows us to maintain radio contact with good security, using extremely simple and portable equipment.
Because our radio transmissions never exceed a second in duration and occur very infrequently, the political police are
not likely to
get a directional fix on any transmitter or to be able to decode any intercepted message.
Our receivers are even simpler than our transmitters and are a sort of cross between a
transistorized pocket broadcast receiver and a
pocket calculator. They remain "on" all the time, and if a numerical
pulse with the right tone-coding is broadcast by any of our
transmitters in the area they will pick it up and display
and hold a numerical readout, whether they are being monitored at the moment
or not.
My major contribution to the Organization so far has been the development of this communications equipment-and,
in fact, the actual
manufacture of a good bit of it.
The first series
of messages broadcast by Washington Field Command to all units in this area was on Sunday. It gave instructions for
each
unit to send its contact man to a numerically specified location to receive a briefing and deliver a unit situation report.
When George returned from Sunday's briefing he relayed the news to the rest of us. The gist of it was that, although there
has been
no trouble in the Washington area yet, WFC is worried by the reports which it has received from our informants
with the political
police.
The System is going all-out to get us.
Hundreds of persons who are suspected to have sympathies for the Organization or some
remote affiliation with us have
been arrested and interrogated. Among these are several of our "legals," but apparently the authorities
haven't
been able to pin anything definite on any of them yet and the interrogations haven't produced any real clues. Still, the
System's reaction to last week's events in Chicago has been more widespread and more energetic than expected.
One thing on which they are working is a computerized, universal,
internal passport system. Every person 12 years or more of age
will he issued a passport and will be required, under
threat of severe penalties, to carry it at all times. Not only can a person be
stopped on the street by any police agent
and asked to show his passport, but they have worked out a plan to make the passports
necessary for many everyday operations,
such as purchasing an airline, bus, or train ticket, registering in a motel or hotel, and
receiving any medical service
in a hospital or clinic.
All ticket counters, motels, physician's offices,
and the like will be equipped with computer terminals linked by telephone lines to a
huge, national data bank and computer
center. A customer's magnetically coded passport number will routinely be fed into the
computer whenever he buys a ticket,
pays a bill, or registers for a service. If there is any irregularity,
a warning
light will go on in the nearest police precinct station, showing the location of the
offending computer terminal-and
the unfortunate customer
They've been developing this internal passport
system for several years now and have everything worked out in detail. The only
reason it hasn't been put into operation
has been squawks from civil-liberties groups, who see it as another big step toward a police
state-which, of course,
it is. But now the System is sure it can override the resistance of the libertarians by using us as an excuse.
Anything
is permitted in the fight against "racism"!
It will take at
least three months to install the necessary equipment and get the system operational, but they are going ahead with it
as fast as they can, figuring to announce it as await accompli with full backing from the news media. Later, the system
will gradually
be expanded, with computer terminals eventually required in every retail establishment. No person will
be able to eat a meal in a
restaurant, pick up his laundry, or buy groceries without having his passport number magnetically
read by a computer terminal beside
the cash register.
When things
get to that point the System will really have a pretty tight grip on the citizenry. With the power of modern computers at
their disposal, the political police will be able to pinpoint any person at any time and know just where he's been and what
he's done.
We'll have to do some hard thinking to get around this passport system.
From what our informants have told us so far, it won't be a simple matter of just forging passports and making
up phony numbers. If
the central computer spots a phony number, a signal will automatically be sent to the nearest police
station. The same thing will
happen if John Jones, who lives in Spokane and is using his passport to buy groceries there,
suddenly seems to be buying groceries
in Dallas too. Or even if, when the computer has Bill Smith safely located in a
bowling alley on Main Street, he simultaneously shows
up at a dry-cleaning establishment on the other side of town
All this is an awesome prospect for us-something which has been technically feasible for
quite a while but which, until recently, we
never would have dreamed the System would actually attempt.
One piece of news George brought back from his briefing was a summons for me to make an
immediate visit to Unit 2 to solve a
technical problem they had. Ordinarily, neither George nor I would have known Unit
2's base location, and if it became necessary to
meet someone from that unit the meeting would have taken place elsewhere.
This problem required my going to their hideout,
however, and George repeated to me the directions he had been given.
They are up in Maryland, more than 30 miles from us, and, since I had to take all my tools
with me anyway, I took the car.
They have a nice place, a large farmhouse and several outbuildings on about 40 acres
of meadow and woodland. There are eight
members in their unit, somewhat more than in most, but apparently not one of
them knows a volt from an ampere or which end of a
screwdriver is which. That is unusual, because some care was supposed
to have been taken when forming our units to distribute
valuable skills sensibly.
Unit 2 is reasonably close to two other units, but all three are inconveniently far from the other nine Washington-area
units- and
especially from Unit 9, which was the only unit with a transmitter for contacting WFC. Because of this, WFC
had decided to give Unit
2 a transmitter, but they hadn't been able to make it work.
The reason for their difficulty became obvious as soon as they ushered me into their kitchen, where their transmitter,
an automobile
storage battery, and some odds and ends of wire were spread out on a table. Despite the explicit instructions
which I had prepared to
go with each transmitter, and despite the plainly visible markings beside the terminals on the
transmitter case, they had managed to
connect the battery to the transmitter with the wrong polarity.
I sighed and got a couple of their fellows to help me bring in my equipment from the car.
First I checked their battery and found it to
be almost completely discharged. I told them to put the battery on the
charger while I checked out the transmitter. Charger? What
charger, they wanted to know? They didn't have one!
Because of the uncertainty of the availability of electrical power from the lines these
days, all our communications equipment is
operated from storage batteries which are trickle-charged from the lines. This
way we are not subject to the power blackouts and
brownouts which have become a weekly, if not daily, phenomenon in recent
years.
Just as with most other public facilities
in this country, the higher the price of electricity has zoomed, the less dependable it has
become. In August of this
year, for example, residential electrical service in the Washington area was out completely for an average
total of four
days, and the voltage was reduced by more than 15 per cent for an average total of 14 days.
The government keeps holding hearings and conducting investigations and issuing reports about the problem,
but it just keeps
getting worse. None of the politicians are willing to face the real issues involved here, one of which
is the disastrous effect
Washington's Israel-dominated foreign policy during the last two decades has had on America's
supply of foreign oil.
I showed them how to hook up the battery to their
truck for an emergency charge and then began looking into their transmitter to see
what damage had been done. A charger
for their battery would have to be found later.
The most critical part
of the transmitter, the coding unit which generates the digital signal from a pocket-calculator keyboard, seemed
to be
OK. It was protected by a diode from damage due to a polarity error. In the transmitter itself, however, three transistors
had
been blown.
I was pretty sure WFC had at least one more spare
transmitter in stock, but in order to find out I would have to get a message to
them. That meant sending a courier over
to Unit 9 to transmit a query and then arranging to have someone from WFC deliver the
transmitter to us. I hesitated
to bother WFC, in view of our policy of restricting radio transmissions from field units to messages of
some urgency.
Since Unit 2 needed a battery charger anyway, I decided to obtain the replacement transistors
from a commercial supply house at the
same time I picked up a charger, and install them myself. Locating the parts I
needed turned out to be easier said than done,
however, and it was after six in the evening when I finally got back to
the farmhouse.
The fuel gauge in the car was reading "empty"
when I pulled into their driveway. Being afraid to risk using my gasoline ration card at a
filling station and not knowing
where to find black-market gasoline around there, I had to ask the people in Unit 2 to give me a few
gallons of fuel
to return home. Well, sir, not only did they have a grand total of about one gallon in their truck, but they didn't know
where any black-market gas was to be had either.
I wondered how such
an inept and unresourceful group of people were going to survive as an underground unit. It seems that they
were all
people that the Organization decided would not be suited for guerrilla activities and had lumped together in one unit. Four
of
them are writers from the Organization's publications department, and they are carrying on their work at the farm,
turning out copy for
propaganda pamphlets and leaflets. The other four are acting only in a supporting role, keeping
the place supplied with food and
other needs.
Since nobody in Unit
2 really needs automotive transportation, they hadn't worried much about fuel. Finally, one of them volunteered
to go
out later that night and siphon some gasoline from a vehicle at a neighboring farm. It was about that time that we had another
power failure in the area, so I couldn't use my soldering iron. I called it quits for the day.
It took me all of the next day and well into last night to finally get their transmitter working properly,
because of several difficulties I
hadn't anticipated. When the job was finally done, around midnight, I suggested that
the transmitter be installed in a better location
than the kitchen, preferably in the attic, or at least on the second
floor of the house.
We found a suitable location and carried everything
upstairs. In the process I managed to drop the storage battery on my left foot. At
first I was sure I had broken my foot.
I couldn't wall: at all on it.
The result was that I spent another night
in the farmhouse. Despite their shortcomings, everyone in Unit 2 was really very kind to me,
and they were properly appreciative
of my efforts on their behalf.
As had been promised, stolen fuel was
provided for my return trip. Furthermore, they insisted on loading up the car with a great
quantity of canned food for
me to take back, of which they seemed to have an unlimited supply. I asked where they got it all, but the
only reply
I received was a smile and an assurance that they could get plenty more when they needed it. Perhaps they are more
resourceful
than I thought at first.
It was 10 o'clock this morning when I got back
to our building. George and Henry were both out, but Katherine greeted me as she
opened the garage door for me to drive
in. She asked if I had eaten breakfast yet.
I told her I had eaten with
Unit 2 and wasn't hungry, but that I was concerned about the condition of my foot, which was throbbing
painfully and
had swelled to nearly twice its normal size. She assisted me as I hobbled up the stairs to the living quarters, and then
she brought me a large basin of cold water to soak my foot in.
The
cold water relieved the throbbing almost immediately, and I leaned back gratefully on the pillows which Katherine propped
behind
me on the couch. I explained how I had hurt my foot, and we exchanged other news on the events of the last two
days.
The three of them had spent all of yesterday
putting up shelves, making minor repairs, and finishing the cleaning and painting which
has kept us all busy for more
than a week. With the odds and ends of furniture we picked up earlier for the place, it is really beginning
to look livable.
Quite an improvement from the bare, cold, and dirty machine shop it was when we moved in.
Last night, Katherine informed me, George was summoned by radio to another meeting with a man from WFC. Then,
early this
morning, he and Henry left together, telling her only that they would be gone all day.
I must have dozed off for a few minutes, and when I awakened I was alone and my footbath was no longer cold.
My foot felt much
better, though, and the swelling had subsided noticeably. I decided to take a shower.
The shower is a makeshift, cold-water-only arrangement which Henry and I installed in
a large closet last week. We did the plumbing
and put in a light, and Katherine covered the walls and floor with a self-adhesive
vinyl for waterproofing. The closet opens off the
room which George, Henry, and I use for sleeping. Of the other two
rooms over the shop, Katherine uses the smaller one for a
bedroom, and the other is a common room which also serves as
a kitchen and eating area.
I undressed, got a towel, and opened the door
to the shower. And there was Katherine, wet, naked, and lovely, standing under the
bare light bulb and drying herself.
She looked at me without surprise and said nothing.
I stood there for
a moment and then, instead of apologizing and closing the door again, I impulsively held out my arms to Katherine.
Hesitantly,
she stepped toward me. Nature took her course.
We lay in bed for a long
while afterward and talked. It was the first time I have really talked to Katherine, alone. She is an affectionate,
sensitive,
and very feminine girl beneath the cool, professional exterior she has always maintained in her work for the Organization.
Four years ago, before the Gun Raids, she was a Congressman's secretary. She lived in a Washington apartment with another
girl
who also worked on Capitol Hill. One evening when Katherine came home from work she found her apartment mate's body
lying in a
pool of blood on the floor. She had been raped and killed by a Negro intruder.
That's why Katherine bought a pistol and kept it even after the Cohen Act made gun ownership illegal. Then,
along with nearly a
million others, she was swept up in the Gun Raids of 1989. Although she had never had any previous
contact with the Organization,
she met George in the detention center they were both held in after being arrested.
Katherine had been apolitical. If anyone had asked her, during the time she was working
for the government or, before that, when she
was a college student, she would have probably said she was a "liberal.
" But she was liberal only in the mindless, automatic way that
most people are. Without really thinking about it
or trying to analyze it, she superficially accepted the unnatural ideology peddled by
the mass media and the government.
She had none of the bigotry, none of the guilt and self-hatred that it takes to make a really
committed, full-time liberal.
After the police released them, George gave her some books on race and history and some
Organization publications to read. For
the first time in her life she began thinking seriously about the important racial,
social, and political issues at the root of the day's
problems.
She
learned the truth about the System's "equality" hoax. She gained an understanding of the unique historical role
of the Jews as
the ferment of decomposition of races and civilizations. Most important, she began acquiring a sense of
racial identity, overcoming a
lifetime of brainwashing aimed at reducing her to an isolated human atom in a cosmopolitan
chaos.
She had lost her Congressional job as a consequence of her arrest,
and, about two months later she went to work for the
Organization as a typist in our publications department. She is
smart and a hard worker, and she was soon advanced to proofreader
and then to copy editor. She wrote a few articles of
her own for Organization publications, mostly exploring women's roles in the
movement and in the larger society, and
just last month she was named editor of a new Organization quarterly directed specifically
toward women.
Her editorial career has now been shelved, of course, at least temporarily, and her most
useful contribution to our present effort is her
remarkable skill at makeup and disguise, something she developed in
amateur-theater work as a student.
Although her initial contact was with
George, Katherine has never been emotionally or romantically involved with him. When they first
met, George was still
married. Later, after George's wife, who never approved of his work for the Organization, had left him and
Katherine
had joined the Organization, they were both too busy in different departments for much contact. George, in fact, whose
work as a fund raiser and roving organizer kept him on the road, wasn't really around Washington much.
It is only a coincidence that George and Katherine were assigned to this unit together,
but George pretty obviously feels a proprietary
interest in her. Although Katherine never did or said anything to support
my assumption, until this morning I had taken it for granted
from George's behavior toward her that there was at least
a tentative relationship between them.
Since George is nominally our
unit leader, I have heretofore kept my natural attraction toward Katherine under control. Now I'm afraid
that the situation has become a bit awkward. If George is unable to adjust graciously to it,
things will be strained and may only by
resolved by some personnel transfers between our unit and others in the area.
For the time being, however, there are other problems to worry about-big ones! When George
and Henry finally got back this
evening, we found out what they'd been doing all day: casing the FBI's national headquarters
downtown. Our unit has been assigned
the task of blowing it up!
The
initial order came all the way down from Revolutionary Command, and a man was sent from the Eastern Command Center to the
WFC briefing George attended Sunday to look over the local unit leaders and pick one for this assignment.
Apparently Revolutionary Command has decided to take the offensive against the political
police before they arrest too many more of
our "legals" or finish setting up their computerized passport system.
George was given the word after he was summoned by WFC for a second briefing yesterday.
A man from Unit 8 was also at
yesterday's briefing. Unit 8 will be assisting us.
The plan, roughly, is this: Unit 8 will secure a large quantity of explosives-between five and ten tons. Our
unit will hijack a truck
making a legitimate delivery to the FBI headquarters, rendezvous at a location where Unit 8
will be waiting with the explosives, and
switch loads. We will then drive into the FBI building's freight-receiving area,
set the fuse, and leave the truck.
While Unit 8 is solving the problem
of the explosives, we have to work out all the other details of the assignment, including a
determination of the FBI's
freight-delivery schedules and procedures. We have been given a ten-day deadline.
My job will be the design and construction of the mechanism of the bomb itself.
Chapter V
October 3, 1991. I've been breaking up my work on the FBI project with some handyman activity
around our building. Last night I
finished our perimeter-alarm system, and today I did some rough and very dirty work
on our emergency escape tunnel.
Along both sides and the back of the
building I buried a row of pressure-sensitive pads, which are wired to a light and an alarm
buzzer inside. The pads are
the sort which are often installed under doormats inside stores to signal the arrival of a customer They
consist of two-foot-long
metal strips sealed inside a flexible plastic sheet, and they are waterproof. Covered with an inch of soil they
are undetectable,
but they will signal us if anyone steps on the ground above them.
This
method could not be used in front of our building, because nearly all the ground there is covered by the concrete driveway
and
parking area. After considering and rejecting an ultrasonic detector for the front, I settled on a photoelectric
beam between two steel
fence posts on either side of the concrete area.
In order to keep the light source and photocell unnoticeable, it was necessary to place them inside the fence post on one
side, with a
very small and inconspicuous reflector mounted on the other. I had to drill several holes in one post, and
quite a bit of tinkering was
necessary to make everything work properly.
Katherine was a big help with this, carefully adjusting the reflector while I lined up the light and photocell. It was also
at her
suggestion that I changed the alarm system inside the building, so that it not only warns us at the instant an
intruder steps on one of
the pressure-sensitive pads or interrupts the light beam, but it also turns on an electric clock
in the garage. This way we will know
whether someone has been around while we were all out of the building-and we will
know when.
In cleaning out a filthy collection of empty oil cans, greasy
rags, and miscellaneous trash from the service pit which had been used for
changing oil and working underneath automobiles
in the garage, we discovered that the service pit opens directly into a storm sewer
through a steel grating in the concrete
floor.
Prying up the grating, we found that it is possible to crawl into
the storm sewer, which is a concrete pipe four feet in diameter. The
pipe runs about 400 yards to a large, open drainage
ditch. Along the way there are about a dozen smaller pipes emptying into the
main conduit, apparently from street drains.
The open end of the sewer is protected by a grating of half-inch reinforcing rods set into
the concrete.
Today I took a hacksaw, scuttled down to the end of the sewer, and sawed through all but
two of the steel rods. This left the grating
firmly in place but made it possible, with a great deal of effort, to bend
it aside far enough to crawl out.
I did so and took a brief look around.
The side of the ditch is heavily overgrown, providing good concealment from the nearby road.
And from the road it is
not possible to see our building or any part of the street on which it fronts, because of intervening structures.
When
I reentered the sewer, I grunted and strained until I had bent the grating back in place again.
Unfortunately, the people who ran the garage and machine shop before we moved in must have been dumping all
their waste oil into
the storm sewer for years, because there's about four inches of thick, black sludge along the bottom
of the sewer pipe near the
opening from the service pit. When I crawled out into the shop again I was covered with the
stuff.
Henry and George were both out, and Katherine made me strip and
hosed me down in the service pit before she would even let me
go upstairs to take a shower. She declared the shoes and
clothes I had been wearing a total loss and threw them out.
Every time I take an ice-cold shower I bitterly regret that
Henry and I didn't take the time to add hot water to our makeshift shower
stall.
October 6. Today I completed the detonating mechanism for the bomb we'll use against the FBI building. The
trigger mechanism itself
was quite easy, but I was held up on the booster until yesterday, because I didn't know what
sort of explosives we would be using.
The people in Unit 8 had planned to raid a supply shed in one of the areas where
the Washington subway system is being extended,
but they didn't have any luck at all until yesterday- and then not much.
They were only able to steal two cases of blasting gelatin, and
one case wasn't
even full. Less than 100 pounds.
But that solved my problem, at least.
The blasting gelatin is sensitive enough to be initiated by one of my homemade lead azide
detonators, and 100 pounds
of it will be more than sufficient to detonate the main charge, when and if Unit 8 finds more explosives,
regardless
of what they are or how they are packaged.
I packed about four pounds
of the blasting gelatin into an empty applesauce can, primed it, placed the batteries and timing
mechanism in the top
of the can, and wired them to a small toggle switch on the end of a 20-foot extension cord. When we load the
truck with
explosives, the can will go in back, on top of the two cases of blasting gelatin. We'll have to poke small holes in the walls
of
the trailer and the cab to run the extension cord and the switch into the cab.
Either George or Henry-probably Henry-will drive the truck into the freight-receiving area inside the FBI building.
Before he gets out of
the cab he will flip the switch, starting the timer. Ten minutes later the explosives will go off.
If we're lucky, that will be the end of the
FBI building-and the government's new three-billion-dollar computer complex
for their internal-passport system.
Six or seven years ago, when they
first started releasing "trial balloons" to see what the public reaction to the new passport system
would be,
it was said that its main purpose would be to detect illegal aliens, so they could be deported.
Although some citizens were properly suspicious of the whole scheme, most swallowed the government's explanation
of why the
passports were needed. Thus, many labor union members, who saw illegal aliens as a threat to their jobs during
a time of high
unemployment, thought it was a fine idea, while liberals generally opposed it because it sounded "racist"-illegal
aliens being virtually
all non-White. Later, when the government granted automatic citizenship to everyone who had managed
to sneak across the Mexican
border and remain in the country for two years, the liberal opposition evaporated-except
for a hard core of libertarians who were still
suspicious.
All in
all, it has been depressingly easy for the System to deceive and manipulate the American people-whether the relatively naive
"conservatives" or the spoiled and pseudo-sophisticated "liberals." Even the libertarians, inherently
hostile to all government, will be
intimidated into going along when Big Brother announces that the new passport system
is necessary to find and root out "racists"-
namely, us.
If the freedom of the American people were the only thing at stake, the existence of the Organization would hardly be justified.
Americans have lost their right to be free. Slavery is the just and proper state for a people who have grown as soft, self-indulgent,
careless, credulous, and befuddled as we have.
Indeed, we are already
slaves. We have allowed a diabolically clever, alien minority to put chains on our souls and our minds. These
spiritual
chains are a truer mark of slavery than the iron chains which are yet to come.
Why didn't we rebel 35 years ago, when they took our schools away from us and began converting them into racially mixed
jungles?
Why didn't we throw them all out of the country 50 years ago,
instead of letting them use us as cannon fodder in their war to
subjugate Europe?
More to the point, why didn't we rise up three years ago, when they started taking our guns away? Why didn't
we rise up in righteous
fury and drag these arrogant aliens into the streets and cut their throats then? Why didn't we
roast them over bonfires at every street-
corner in America? Why didn't we make a final end to this obnoxious and eternally
pushy clan, this pestilence from the sewers of the
East, instead of meekly allowing ourselves to be disarmed?
The answer is easy. We would have rebelled if all that has been imposed on us in the last
50 years had been attempted at once. But
because the chains that bind us were forged imperceptibly, link by link, we
submitted.
The adding of any single, new link to the chain was never
enough for us to make a big fuss about. It always seemed easier -and safer-
to go along. And the further we went, the
easier it was to go just one step further.
One thing the historians will
have to decide-if any men of our race survive to write a history of this era-is the relative importance of
deliberation
and inadvertence in converting us from a society of free men to a herd of human cattle.
That is, can we justly blame what has happened to us entirely on deliberate subversion, carried out through
the insidious propaganda
of the controlled mass media, the schools, the churches, and the government? Or must we place
a large share of the blame on
inadvertent decadence - on the spiritually debilitating life style into which the Western
people have allowed themselves to slip in the
twentieth century?
Probably
the two things are intertwined, and it will be difficult to blame either cause separately. Brainwashing has made decadence
more acceptable to us, and decadence has made us less resistant to brainwashing. In any event, we are too close to the trees
now to
see the outline of the forest very clearly.
But one thing
which is quite clear is that much more than our freedom is at stake. If the Organization fails in its task now, everything
will be lost-our history, our heritage, all the blood and sacrifices and upward striving of
countless thousands of years. The Enemy we
are fighting fully intends to destroy the racial basis of our existence.
No excuse for our failure will have any meaning, for there will be only a swarming horde
of indifferent, mulatto zombies to hear it.
There will be no White men to remember us-either to blame us for our weakness
or to forgive us for our folly.
If we fail, God's great Experiment will
come to an end, and this planet will once again, as it did millions of years ago, move through
the ether devoid of higher
man.
October 11. Tomorrow is the day! Despite the failure of Unit 8 to
find as much explosives as we want, we are going ahead with the
FBI operation.
The final decision on this came late this afternoon in a conference at Unit 8's headquarters. Henry and I were
both there, as well as a
staff officer from Revolutionary Command- an indication of the urgency with which the Organization's
leadership views this operation.
Ordinarily Revolutionary Command personnel
do not become involved with unit actions on an operational level. We receive
operational orders from and report to Washington
Field Command, with representatives from the Eastern Command Center
participating occasionally in conferences when matters
of special importance must be decided. Only twice previously have I attended
meetings with anyone from Revolutionary
Command, both times to make basic decisions concerning the Organization's
communications equipment, which I was designing.
And that, of course, was before we went underground.
So the presence
of Major Williams (a pseudonym, I believe) at our meeting this afternoon made a strong impression on all of us. I
was
asked to attend because I am responsible for the proper functioning of the bomb. Henry was there because he will be delivering
it.
And the reason for the meeting was Unit 8's failure to obtain what
I and Ed Sanders estimate to be the minimum quantity of
explosives needed to do a thorough job. Ed is Unit 8's ordnance
expert-and, interestingly enough, a former special agent of the FBI
who is familiar with the structure and layout of
the FBI building.
As carefully as we could, we calculated that we should
have at least 10,000 pounds of TNT or an equivalent explosive to destroy a
substantial portion of the building and wreck
the new computer center in the sub-basement. To be on the safe side, we asked for
20,000 pounds. Instead, what we have
is a little under 5,000 pounds, and nearly all of that is ammonium nitrate fertilizer, which is
much less effective than
TNT for our purpose.
After the initial two cases of blasting gelatin,
Unit 8 was able to pick up 400 pounds of dynamite from another subway construction
shed. We have given up hope of assembling
the necessary quantity of explosives in this way, however. Although large quantities of
explosives are used each day
on the subway, it is stored in small batches and access is very difficult. Two of Unit 8's people had a
close call when
they swiped the dynamite.
Last Thursday, with our deadline for completing
the job upon us, three men from Unit 8 made a night raid on a farm-supply
warehouse near Fredericksburg, about 50 miles
south of here. They found no explosives, as such, but did find some ammonium
nitrate, which they cleaned out: forty-four
100-lb. bags of the stuff.
Sensitized with oil and tightly confined,
it makes an effective blasting agent, where the aim is simply to move a quantity of dirt or rock.
But our original plan
for the bomb called for it to be essentially unconfined and to be able to punch through two levels of reinforced-
concrete
flooring while producing an open-air blast wave powerful enough to blow the facade off a massive and strongly constructed
building.
Finally, two days ago, Unit 8 set about doing what it should
have done at the beginning. The same three fellows who had gotten the
ammonium nitrate headed up into Maryland with their
truck to rob a military arsenal. I gather from what Ed Sanders says that we
have a legal on the inside there who will
be able to help.
But, as of this afternoon, there has been no word from
them, and Revolutionary Command isn't willing to wait any longer. The pros
and cons of going ahead with what we have
now are these:
The System is hurting us badly by continuing to arrest
our legals, upon whom the Organization is largely dependent for its financing.
If the supply of funds from our legals
is cut off, our underground units will be forced to turn to robbery on a large scale in order to
support themselves.
Thus, Revolutionary Command feels it is essential to strike the System immediately with
a blow which will not only interrupt the FBI
roundup of our legals, at least temporarily, but will also raise morale
throughout the Organization by embarrassing the System and
demonstrating our ability to act. From what Williams said,
I gather that these two goals have become even more pressing than the
original objective of knocking out the computer
bank.
On the other hand, if we strike a blow which does not do some real
damage to the System's secret police we may not only fail to
achieve these
new goals but, by forewarning the enemy of our intentions and tactics, also make it much more difficult to hit the
computers
later. This was the viewpoint expressed by Henry, whose great gift is his ability to always keep a cool head and not
be
distracted from future goals by immediate difficulties. But he is also a good soldier and is completely willing to carry through
with
his part of tomorrow's action, despite his feeling that we should hold off until we are certain that we can do a
thorough job.
I believe the people in Revolutionary Command also understand
the danger in hasty, premature action. But they must take into
consideration many factors which we cannot. Williams is
clearly convinced that it is imperative to throw a monkey wrench into the
FBI's gears immediately, otherwise they will
flatten us like a steamroller. Thus, most of our discussion this afternoon centered on the
narrow question of just how
much damage we can do with our present quantity of explosives.
If, in
accord with our original plan, we drive a truck into the main freight entrance of the FBI building and blow it up in the freight-
receiving area, the explosion will take place in a large, central courtyard, surrounded on all sides by heavy masonry and
open to the
sky above. Ed and I both agree that with the present quantity of explosives we will not be able to do any
really serious structural
damage under those conditions.
We can
wreak havoc in all the offices with windows opening on the courtyard, but we cannot hope to blow away the inner facade of
the building or to punch through to the sub-basement where the computers are. Several hundred people will be killed, but
the
machine will probably keep running.
Sanders pleaded for another
day or two for his unit to find more explosives, but his case was weakened by their failure to find what
was needed in
the last 12 days. With nearly a hundred of our legals being arrested every day, we can't take a chance on waiting even
another two days, Williams said, unless we can be certain that those two days will bring us what we need.
What we finally decided is to attempt to get our bomb directly into the first-level basement,
which also has a freight entrance on 10th
Street, next to the main freight entrance. If we detonate our bomb in the basement
underneath the courtyard, the confinement will
make it substantially more effective. It will almost certainly collapse
the basement floor into the subbasement, burying the computers.
Furthermore
it will destroy most, if not all, the communications and power equipment for the building, since those are on the
basement
levels. The big unknown is whether it will do enough structural damage to the building to make it uninhabitable for an
extended period. Without a detailed blueprint of the building and a team of architects and civil engineers we simply can't
answer that
question.
The drawback to going for the basement is
that relatively few freight deliveries are made there, and the entrance is usually closed.
Henry is willing to crash
the truck right through the door, if necessary.
So be it. Tomorrow night
we'll know a lot more than we do today.
Chapter Vl
October 13, 1991. At 9:15 yesterday morning our bomb went off in the FBI's national headquarters building. Our worries about
the
relatively small size of the bomb were unfounded; the damage is immense. We have certainly disrupted a major portion
of the FBI's
headquarters operations for at least the next several weeks, and it looks like we have also achieved our
goal of wrecking their new
computer complex.
My day's work started
a little before five o'clock yesterday, when I began helping Ed Sanders mix heating oil with the ammonium
nitrate fertilizer
in Unit 8's garage. We stood the s00 pound bags on end one by one and poked a small hole in the top with a
screwdriver,
just big enough to insert the end of a funnel. While I held the bag and funnel, Ed poured in a gallon of oil.
Then we slapped a big square of adhesive tape over the hole, and I turned the bag end
over end to mix the contents while Ed refilled
his oil can from the feeder line to their oil furnace. It took us nearly
three hours to do all 44 sacks, and the work really wore me out.
Meanwhile,
George and Henry were out stealing a truck. With only two-and-a-half tons of explosives we didn't need a big tractor-
trailer
rig, so we had decided to grab a delivery truck belonging to an office-supply firm. They just followed the truck they wanted
in
our car until it stopped to make a delivery. When the driver-a Negro-opened the back of the truck and stepped inside,
Henry hopped
in after him and dispatched him swiftly and silently with his knife.
Then George followed in the car while Henry drove the truck to the garage. They backed in just as Ed and I
were finishing our work.
They are certain that no one on the street noticed a thing.
It took us another half hour to unload about a ton of mimeograph paper and miscellaneous office supplies from
the truck and then to
carefully pack our cases of dynamite and bags of sensitized fertilizer in place. Finally, I ran
the cable and switch from the detonator
through a chink from the cargo area into the cab of the truck. We left the driver's
body in the back of the truck.
George and I headed for the FBI building
in the car, with Henry following in the truck. We intended to park near the 10th Street freight
entrances and watch until
the freight door to the basement level was opened for another truck, while Henry waited with "our" truck two
blocks away. We would then give him a signal via walkie-talkie.
As
we drove by the building, however, we saw that the basement entrance was open and no one was in sight. We signaled Henry
and kept going for another seven or eight blocks, until we found a good spot to park. Then we began walking back slowly,
keeping an
eye on our watches.
We were still two blocks away when
the pavement shuddered violently under our feet. An instant later the blast wave hit us-a
deafening "ka-whoomp,"
followed by an enormous roaring, crashing sound, accentuated by the higher-pitched noise of shattering
glass all around
us.
The plate glass windows in the store beside us and dozens of others
that we could see along the street were blown to splinters. A
glittering and deadly rain of glass shards continued to
fall into the street from the upper stories of nearby buildings for a few seconds,
as a jet-black column of smoke shot
straight up into the sky ahead of us.
We ran the final two blocks and
were dismayed to see what, at first glance, appeared to be an entirely intact FBI headquarters-
except, of course, that
most of the windows were missing. We headed for the 10th Street freight entrances we had driven past a few
minutes earlier.
Dense, choking smoke was pouring from the ramp leading to the basement, and it was out of the question to attempt
to
enter there.
Dozens of people were scurrying around the freight entrance
to the central courtyard, some going in and some coming out. Many
were bleeding profusely from cuts, and all had expressions
of shock or dazed disbelief on their faces. George and I took deep
breaths and hurried through the entrance. No one challenged
us or even gave us a second glance.
The scene in the courtyard was one
of utter devastation. The whole Pennsylvania Avenue wing of the building, as we could then see,
had collapsed, partly
into the courtyard in the center of the building and partly into Pennsylvania Avenue. A huge, gaping hole
yawned in the
courtyard pavement just beyond the rubble of collapsed masonry, and it was from this hole that most of the column of
black smoke was ascending.
Overturned trucks
and automobiles, smashed office furniture, and building rubble were strewn wildly about-and so were the bodies of
a shockingly
large number of victims. Over everything hung the pall of black smoke, burning our eyes and lungs and reducing the
bright
morning to semi-darkness.
We took a few steps into the courtyard in order
to better evaluate the damage we had caused. We had to wade through a waist-deep
sea of paper, which had spilled out
of a huge jumble of file cabinets to our right, perhaps a thousand of them. It looked like they had
slid en masse into
the courtyard from one of the upper stories of the collapsed wing, and now there was a tangled heap of smashed
and burst
cabinets 20 feet high and 80 to 100 feet long interspersed with their disgorged contents, which had spread out beyond the
heap until most of the courtyard was covered with paper.
As we gaped
with a mixture of horror and elation at the devastation, Henry's head suddenly appeared a few feet away. He was
climbing
out of a crevice in the mountain of smashed file cabinets. We were both startled to see him, as he was supposed to have left
the area as soon as he parked the truck and then waited for us to pick him up at the rendezvous point.
He quickly explained that everything had gone so smoothly in the basement that he had
decided to wait in the area for the blast. He
had flipped the switch to the detonator timer as he drove the truck down
the ramp into the building, so that there could be no chance
of any difficulties which might arise causing him to change
his mind. But no difficulties arose. He received no challenge, only a casual
wave from a Black guard, as he pulled into
the basement. Two other trucks were unloading at a freight platform, but Henry drove on
past them, stopping his truck
as nearly under the center of the Pennsylvania Avenue wing of the building as he could judge.
He had a hoked-up set of delivery documents to hand to anyone who questioned him, but no one did. He walked
past the inattentive
Black guard, back up the ramp, and out onto the street.
He waited by a public phone booth a block away until one minute before the explosion was due, then placed a call to the
newsroom
of the Washington Post. His brief message was: "Three weeks ago you and yours killed Carl Hodges in Chicago.
We are now settling
the score with your pals in the political police. Soon we'll settle the score with you and all other
traitors. White America shall live!"
That should rattle their cage enough to provoke a few good headlines and editorials!
Henry had beat us back to the FBI building by less than a minute, but he had put that
minute to good use. He pointed to a few curls of
lighter, grayish smoke which were beginning to rise from the tangle
of smashed file cabinets from which he had just emerged, and
then he flashed a quick grin as he dropped his cigarette
lighter back into his pocket. Henry is a one-man army.
As we turned to
leave, I heard a moan and looked down to see a girl, about 20 years old, half under a steel door and other debris.
Her
pretty face was smudged and scraped, and she seemed to be only half conscious. I lifted the door off her and saw that one
leg
was crumpled under her, badly broken, and blood was spurting from a deep gash in her thigh.
I quickly removed the cloth belt from her dress and used it to make a tourniquet. The flow of blood slowed
somewhat, but not enough.
I then tore off a portion of her dress and folded it into a compress, which I held against
the cut in her leg while George removed his
shoelaces and used them to tie the compress in place. As gently as we could
George and I picked her up to carry her out to the
sidewalk. She moaned loudly as her broken leg straightened.
The girl seemed to have no serious injuries other than her leg, and she will probably
pull through all right. Not so for many others,
though. When I stooped to stop the girl's bleeding I became aware for
the first time of the moans and screams of dozens of other
injured persons in the courtyard. Not twenty feet away another
woman lay motionless, her face covered with blood and a gaping
wound in the side of her head-a horrible sight which I
can still see vividly every time I close my eyes.
According to the latest
estimate released, approximately 700 persons were killed in the blast or subsequently died in the wreckage.
That includes
an estimated 150 persons who were in the sub-basement at the time of the explosion and whose bodies have not been
recovered.
It may be more than two weeks before enough rubble has been cleared away to allow full
access to that level of the building,
according to the TV news reporter. That report and others we've heard yesterday
and today make it virtually certain that the new
computer banks in the sub-basement have either been totally destroyed
or very badly damaged.
All day yesterday and most of today we watched
the TV coverage of rescue crews bringing the dead and injured out of the building. It
is a heavy burden of responsibility
for us to bear, since most of the victims of our bomb were only pawns who were no more
committed to the sick philosophy
or the racially destructive goals of the System than we are.
But there
is no way we can destroy the System without hurting many thousands of innocent people-no way. It is a cancer too deeply
rooted in our flesh. And if we don't destroy the System before it destroys us-if we don't cut this cancer out of our living
flesh-our whole
race will die.We have gone over this before, and we are all completely convinced that what we did is
justified, but it is still very hard to see our
own people suffering so intensely because of our acts. It is because
Americans have for so many years been unwilling to make
unpleasant decisions that we are forced to make decisions now
which are stern indeed.
And is that not a key to the whole problem? The
corruption of our people by the Jewish-liberal-democratic-equalitarian plague which
afflicts us is more clearly manifested
in our soft-mindedness, our unwillingness to recognize the harder realities of life, than in
anything else.
Liberalism is an essentially feminine, submissive world view. Perhaps a better adjective
than feminine is infantile. It is the world view
of men who do not have the moral toughness, the spiritual strength to
stand up and do single combat with life, who cannot adjust to
the reality that the world is not a huge, pink-and-blue,
padded nursery in which the lions lie down with the lambs and everyone lives
happily ever after.
Nor should spiritually healthy men of our race even want the world to be like that, if it could be so. That
is an alien, essentially Oriental
approach to life, the world view of slaves rather than of free men of the West.
But it has permeated our whole society. Even those who do not consciously accept the liberal
doctrines have been corrupted by
them. Decade after decade the race problem in America has become worse. But the majority
of those who wanted a solution, who
wanted to preserve a White America, were never able to screw up the courage to look
the obvious solutions in the face.
All the liberals and the Jews had
to do was begin screeching about "inhumanity" or "injustice" or "genocide," and most of our
people
who had been beating around the edges of a solution took to their heels like frightened rabbits. Because there
was never a way to
solve the race problem which would be "fair for everybody or which everyone concerned could be
politely persuaded into accepting
without any fuss or unpleasantness, they kept trying to evade it, hoping that it would
go away by itself. And the same has been true of
the Jewish problem and the immigration problem and the overpopulation
problem and the eugenics problem and a thousand related
problems.
Yes, the inability to face reality and make difficult decisions, that is the salient symptom of the liberal disease. Always
trying to avoid a
minor unpleasantness now, so that a major unpleasantness becomes unavoidable later, always evading
any responsibility to the
future-that is the way the liberal mind works.
Nevertheless, every time the TV camera focuses on the pitiful, mutilated corpse of some poor girl-or even an FBI agent-
being pulled
from the wreckage, my stomach becomes tied in knots and I cannot breathe. It is a terrible, terrible task
we have before us.
And it is already clear that the controlled media
intend to convince the public that what we are doing is terrible. They are deliberately
emphasizing the suffering we
have caused by interspersing gory close-ups of the victims with tearful interviews with their relatives.
Interviewers
are asking leading questions like, "What kind of inhuman beasts do you think could have done something like this to your
daughter?" They have clearly made the decision to portray the bombing of the FBI building as the atrocity of the century.
And, indeed, it is an act of unprecedented magnitude. All the bombings, arsons, and assassinations carried out by the Left
in this
country have been rather small-time in comparison.
But what
a difference in the attitude of the news medial I remember a long string of Marxist acts of terror 20 years ago, during the
Vietnam war. A number of government buildings were burned or dynamited, and several innocent bystanders were killed, but
the
press always portrayed such things as idealistic acts of "protest."
There was a gang of armed, revolutionary Negroes who called themselves "Black Panthers." Every time
they had a shootout with the
police, the press and TV people had their tearful interviews with the families of the Black
gang members who got killed-not with the
cops' widows. And when a Negress who belonged to the Communist Party helped
plan a courtroom shootout and even supplied the
shotgun with which a judge was murdered, the press formed a cheering
section at her trial and tried to make a folk hero out of her.
Well, as Henry warned the Washington Post yesterday, we
will soon begin settling that score. One day we will have a truly American
press in this country, but a lot of editors'
throats will have to be cut first.
October 16. I'm back with my old friends
in Unit 2. These words are being written by lantern light in the place they fixed up in the loft
of their barn for Katherine
and me. A bit chilly and primitive, but at least we have complete privacy. This is the first time we've had a
whole night
together by ourselves.
Actually we didn't come here for a romp in the
hay but to pick up a load of munitions. The fellows from Unit 8 who were sent up here
last week to find explosives for
the FBI job were at least partly successful: they didn't get much in the way of bulk explosives, and
they were too late
with what they did get, and they nearly got themselves killed-but they did acquire quite a grab bag of miscellaneous
ordnance
for the Organization.
They didn't tell me all the details, but they were
able to get a 2 1/2-ton truck into the Aberdeen Proving Ground, about 25 miles from
here, load it with munitions, and get it out again- with the help of one of our people on the inside. Unfortunately,
they were surprised
in the act of raiding a storage bunker and had to shoot their way out. In the process one of them
was very seriously wounded.
They managed to elude their pursuers and
get as far as Unit 2's farm outside Baltimore, and they have been in hiding here ever
since. The man who was shot nearly
died from shock and loss of blood, but no major organs were damaged and it now looks as if
he'll pull through, although
he's still too weak to be moved.
The other two have been keeping themselves
busy working on their truck, which is parked right beneath us. They've repainted it and
made a couple of other changes,
so it won't be recognizable when they eventually head back toward Washington in it.
They won't be taking the bulk of their munitions back with them, however. Most of it will be stored here and
used to supply units
throughout the area. Washington Field Command is letting our unit have first pick of this material.
There's quite an assortment. Probably most valuable are 30 cases of fragmentation grenades-that's
750 hand grenades! We'll take
two cases back with us.
Then there
are about 100 land mines of various types and sizes -handy for making booby traps. We'll pick out two or three of those .
And there are fuses and boosters galore. Cases of fuses for bombs, mines, grenades, et cetera. And eight spools of detonating
cord.
And a case of thermite grenades. And lots of other odds and ends.
And there's even a 500-lb., general-purpose bomb. They made such a racket trying to get that onto the truck that a guard
heard them.
But we'll take it back with us. It's filled with about 250 pounds of tritonal, a mixture of TNT and aluminum
powder, and we can melt it
out of the bomb casing and use it for smaller bombs.
Katherine and I are both very happy we could make this trip together, but the circumstances are troubling.
George first asked Henry
and me to go, but Katherine objected. She complained that she had not yet been given a chance
to participate in the activities of our
unit and, in fact, had hardly been outside our two hideouts during the last month.
She had no intention, she said, of being nothing but
a cook and housekeeper for the rest of us.
We were all under a bit of tension following the big bombing, and Katherine came across a bit shrill-almost
like a women's fibber.
(Note to the reader: "Women's lib" was a form of mass psychosis which broke out during
the last three decades of the Old Era.
Women affected by it denied their femininity and insisted that they were "people,"
not "women." This aberration was promoted and
encouraged by the System as a means of dividing our race against
itself.) George hotly protested that she was not being
discriminated against, that her makeup-and-disguise abilities
had been particularly valuable to our unit, and that he assigned tasks
solely on the basis of how he thought we could
function most effectively.
I tried to smooth things over by suggesting
that perhaps it would be better for a man and a woman to be driving a carload of
contraband than two men. The police
have been stopping lots of cars at random in the Washington area for searches in the last few
days.
Henry agreed with my suggestion, and George reluctantly went along with it. I am afraid,
however, that he suspects that at least part
of the reason for Katherine's outburst is that she preferred to be with
me rather than to be left alone for a whole day with him.
We have not flaunted our relationship, hut it is not likely
that either Henry or George has failed to guess by now that Katherine and I
are lovers. That creates a rather awkward
situation for all of us. Completely aside from the fact that George and Henry are both
healthy males and Katherine is
the only female among us is the problem of Organizational discipline.
The
Organization has made allowances for married couples where both man and wife are members of a unit, in that husbands have
veto power over any orders given to their wives. But, with that exception, women are subject to the same discipline as men,
and,
despite the informality which prevails in nearly all units, any infraction of Organizational discipline is an extremely
serious matter.
Katherine and I have talked about this, and, just as we are unwilling to regard our growing relationship
as purely sexual, bearing no
obligations, neither are we inclined to formalize it yet. For one thing, we still have a
lot to learn about each other. For another, we
each have an overriding commitment to the Organization and to our unit,
and we must not lightly do anything which might infringe
upon that commitment.
Nevertheless, we'll have to resolve things one way or another pretty soon.
Chapter VII
October 23, 1991. This morning is my first chance to write since Katherine and I picked
up the munitions in Maryland last week. Our
unit has carried out three missions in the last six days.
Altogether, the Organization is held responsible for more than 200 separate incidents
in different parts of the country, according to
news reports. We are really into the thick of a guerrilla war now.
Last Monday night, Henry, George, and I raided the Washington Post. It was a quick thing,
requiring little preparation, although we
did argue for a few minutes ahead of time about the way it should be done.
Henry was for going after personnel, but we ended up wrecking one of their presses instead.
Henry's idea was that the three of us
should force our way into the newsroom and editorial offices on the sixth floor
of the Washington Post building and kill as many
people as we could with fragmentation grenades and machine guns. If
we struck just before their 7:30 PM deadline, we would catch
nearly everyone in.
George overruled that maneuver as being too risky to be carried out without detailed planning. Hundreds of
people work in the
Washington Post building, and the sounds of grenades and shooting on the sixth floor would probably
bring a lot of them swarming
into the stairwells and lobby. If we tried to come down on the elevators, someone could
pull the main switch on us, and we'd be
trapped.
On the other hand,
the Post's pressroom is visible through a big plate-glass window from the lobby. So I rigged up a makeshift bomb
by taping
a hand grenade to a small anti-tank mine. The whole thing weighed about six pounds and was quite awkward, but it could
be thrown about 50 feet like an oversized grenade.
We parked in an
alley about 100 yards from the main entrance of the Post. As soon as George had disarmed the guard, Henry
blasted a huge
hole in the pressroom window with his sawed-off shotgun. Then I pulled the pin on the grenade-mine contraption I had
rigged
and heaved it into the rollers of the nearest press, which was just being plated up for the night's run.
We ducked behind the masonry parapet while the bomb exploded, and then Henry and I hurriedly
threw half-a-dozen thermite
grenades into the pressroom. We were all back in the all before anyone had even come out
onto the sidewalk, and so no one saw our
car. Katherine, of course, had done her usual magic with our faces.
The next morning the Post appeared on the streets about an hour later than usual, and
home subscribers missed their papers
altogether, since the early editions had been skipped, but the Post was otherwise
apparently none the worse for wear. We had
substantially damaged only one press with our bomb and smoked things up a
bit with our incendiary grenades, one of which set a
barrel of ink afire, but the Post had lost virtually none of its
capacity for spreading its lies and venom as a result of our efforts.
We were quite chagrined by this outcome. It became
clear to us that we had foolishly taken a risk far out of proportion to any
advantage which could have been reasonably
expected.
We have resolved that, in the future, we will undertake no
mission on our own initiative until we have carefully evaluated its objective
and convinced ourselves that it is worth
the risk. We cannot afford to strike the System simply for the sake of striking, or we will
become like an army of gnats
trying to bite an elephant to death. Each blow must be carefully calculated for its effect.
Henry's idea of attacking the Post's newsroom and editorial of fices seems much better in retrospect. We should
have held off for a
few days in order to work out a sound plan which would have really crippled the Post, instead of
rushing into our halfassed raid on its
presses. All we really succeeded in doing was putting the Post on guard and making
any future raids much more hazardous.
We did redeem ourselves a bit the
morning after the raid, however. Surmising that the editorial staff had spent most of the night in
their offices writing
new copy about the events of the evening and would, therefore, be at home sleeping late, we decided to pay one
of them
a visit.
After looking over the newspaper, we settled on the editorialpage
editor, who had written a particularly vicious editorial against us. His
words
dripped with Talmudic hatred. Racists like us, he said, deserve no consideration from the police or any decent citizen. We
should be shot down on sight like mad dogs. Quite a contrast with his usual solicitude for Black rapists and murderers and
his tirades
against "police brutality" and "overreaction" !
Since his editorial was an incitement to murder, it seemed to us only appropriate that he be given a taste
of his own remedy.
Henry and I rode a bus downtown and then waved down a taxi with a Black driver. By the time we pulled
up in the editor's driveway in
Silver Spring, the Black was in the trunk-dead.
I waited in the taxi while Henry rang the bell and told the woman who answered that he was delivering a package
from the Post and
needed a signed receipt. When the sleepy-eyed editor appeared at the door in his bathrobe a few moments
later, Henry literally blew
him in half with two blasts from the sawed-off shotgun he had been carrying under his jacket.
On Wednesday all four of us (Katherine drove the car) completely destroyed the Washington
area's most powerful TV transmitter.
That one was hairy, and there were moments when I didn't think we were going to
get away.
It is still not clear what effect all our activity is having
on the general public. For the most part they are just going about their affairs as
they always have.
There have been effects, though. The National Guards of a dozen states have been called
up to reinforce local police forces, and
there are now large, around-the-clock guard details stationed outside every
government building in Washington, the major media of
fices in a number of cities, and the homes of hundreds of government
officials.
Within a week, I suspect, every Congressman, every Federal
judge, and every Federal bureaucrat from the assistant-secretary level
on up will have been assigned a permanent bodyguard
detail. All the sandbags, machine guns, and khaki uniforms that one is
beginning to see everywhere in Washington cannot
help but raise the consciousness of the public-although I'm sure the situation is
much less dramatic out in Iowa than
it is here.
Our biggest difficulty is that the public sees us and everything
we do only through the media. We are able to make ourselves enough
of a nuisance that the media can't afford to ignore
or belittle us, and so they are using the opposite tactic of deluging the public with
distortions, half-truths, and lies
about us. For the last two weeks they've been giving us a non-stop roasting, trying to convince
everyone that we are
the incarnation of evil, a threat to everything decent, noble, and worthwhile.
They have unleashed the full power of the mass media on us; not just the usual biased-news treatment, but long "background"
articles in the Sunday supplements, complete with faked photographs of Organization meetings and activities, discussions
by
"experts" on TV panel shows-everything! Some of the stories they've invented about us are really incredible,
but I'm afraid the
American public is just gullible enough to believe them.
What's happening now is reminiscent of the media campaign against Hitler and the Germans back in the 1940's: stories about
Hitler
flying into rages and chewing carpets, phony German plans for the invasion of America, babies being skinned alive
to make
lampshades and then boiled down into soap, girls kidnapped and sent to Nazi "stud farms." The Jews
convinced the American people
that those stories were true, and the result was World War II, with millions of the best
of our race butchered -by us-and all of eastern
and central Europe turned into a huge, communist prison camp.
Now
it looks very much like the System has again made the deliberate decision to build up a state of war hysteria in the public
by
representing us as an even bigger threat than we really are. We are the new Germans, and the country is being wound
up
psychologically to lick us.
Thus, the System is cooperating more
fully than we could have imagined in arousing the public's consciousness of our struggle. What
is unnerving about it
is my strong suspicion that the top echelons in the System aren't really that worried about our threat to them and
are
cynically using us as an excuse for carrying through certain programs of their own, such as the internal-passport program.
Our unit was assigned the general task-right after the FBI bombing-of combating the media in this area by direct action,
Just as other
units were assigned other arms of the System as targets. But it is clear that we can't win by direct action
alone; there are too many of
them and too few of us. We must convince a substantial portion of the American people that
what we are doing is both necessary and
proper.
The latter is a
propaganda task, and so far we haven't been very successful. Units 2 and 6 are primarily responsible for propaganda
m
the Washington area, and I understand that Unit 6's people have strewn out tons of leaflets in the streets; Henry picked up
one
from a sidewalk downtown yesterday. I'm afraid that leaflets alone can't make much headway against the System's mass
media,
though.
Our most spectacular propaganda effort here occurred
last Wednesday, and it ended in a major tragedy. The same day our unit blew
up the TV station, three men from Unit 6
seized a radio station and began broadcasting a call for the public to join the Organization's
fight to smash the System.
They had pre-recorded their message on tape, and they booby
trapped the doors to the station, after locking all the station
employees in a supply closet. They intended to make their
getaway while the tape was being broadcast, hoping that the police would
think they were still inside and would lay siege
to the place with tear gas-thus giving them half an hour or more of air time.
But the police arrived sooner than expected and stormed the station almost immediately, trapping our men inside. Two were
shot to
death in the ensuing fight, and the third is not expected to live. The Organization's message was on the air
for less than 10 minutes.
Those were the first casualties we've suffered here, but they just about wiped out Unit 6.
Their survivors, two women and a man,
have moved into our place temporarily. With one of their members in the hands of
the police, they had to abandon their own
headquarters immediately, of course.
With it we lost one of the Organization's two printing presses in the Washington area, although we were able
to clear out most of their
printing supplies and lighter equipment. And we gained their pickup truck, which will really
be handy if they stay here.
October 28. Last night I had to do the most unpleasant thing that I have been called to do
since joining the Organization four years
ago. I participated in the execution of a mutineer.
Harry Powell was Unit 5's leader. Last week, when Washington Field Command gave his unit the assignment of
assassinating two of
the most obnoxious and outspoken advocates of racial mixing in this area-a priest and a rabbi, coauthors
of a widely publicized
petition to Congress requesting special tax advantages for racially mixed married couples - Powell
refused the assignment. He sent a
message back to WFC saying that he was opposed to the further use of violence and that
his unit would not participate in any acts of
terrorism.
He was
immediately placed under arrest, and yesterday one representative from each unit under WFC-including Unit S- was
summoned
to judge him. Unit 10 was not able to send anyone, and so 11 members-eight men and three women- met with an officer
from
WFC in the basement storeroom of a gift shop owned by one of our "legals." I was Unit l's representative.
The officer from WFC stated the case against Powell very briefly. The Unit 5 representative
then confirmed the facts: Powell had not
only refused to obey the assassination order, but he had instructed the members
of his unit not to obey either. Fortunately, they had
not allowed themselves to be subverted by him.
Powell was then given an opportunity to speak in his behalf. He did so for more than two
hours, interrupted occasionally by a
question from one of us. What he said really shook me, but it made our decision
easier for all of us, I am sure.
Harry Powell was, in essence, a "responsible
conservative." The fact that he was not only a member of the Organization but had
become a unit leader reflects
more on the Organization than it does on him. His basic complaint was that all our acts of terror against
the System
were only making things worse by "provoking" the System into taking more and more repressive measures.
Well, of course, we all understood that! Or, at least, I thought we all understood it.
Apparently Powell didn't. That is, he didn't
understand that one of the major purposes of political terror, always and
everywhere, is to force the authorities to take reprisals and
to become more repressive, thus alienating a portion of
the population and generating sympathy for the terrorists. And the other
purpose is to create unrest by destroying the
population's sense of security and their belief in the invincibility of the government.
As Powell continued talking,
it became clearer and clearer that he was a conservative, not a revolutionary. He talked as if the whole
purpose of the
Organization were to force the System to institute certain reforms, rather than to destroy the System, root and branch,
and build something radically and fundamentally different in its place.
He was opposed to the System because it taxed his business too heavily. (He had owned a hardware store before we were forced
underground.) He was opposed to the System's permissiveness with Blacks, because crime and rioting were bad for business.
He
was opposed to the System's confiscation of firearms, because he felt he needed a gun for personal security. His were
the
motivations of a libertarian, the sort of self-centered individual who sees the basic evil in government as a limitation
on free
enterprise.
Someone asked him whether he had forgotten what
the Organization has repeated over and over, namely, that our struggle is to
secure the future of our race, and that
the issue of individual freedom is subordinate to that one, overwhelming purpose. His retort
was that the Organization's
violent tactics are benefiting neither our race nor individual freedom.
This answer proved again that he didn't really understand what we are trying to do. His initial approval of the use of force
against the
System was based on the naive assumption that, by God, we'll show those bastards! When the System, instead
of backing down,
began tightening the screws even faster, he decided that our policy of terrorism is counter-productive.
He simply could not accept the fact that the path to our goal cannot be a retracing of
our course to some earlier stage in our history,
but must instead be an overcoming of the present and a forging ahead
into the future-with us choosing the direction instead of the
System. Until we have torn the rudder out of its grasp
and thrown the System overboard, the ship of state will go careening on its
hazardous
way. There will be no stopping, no going back. Since we are already among rocks and shoals, we are bound to get
scraped
up pretty badly before we find any clear sailing.
Maybe he was right
that our tactics are wrong; the reaction of the people will eventually answer that question. But his whole attitude,
his
whole orientation was wrong. As I listened to Powell I was reminded of the late-19th century writer, Brooks Adams, and his
division of the human race into two classes: spiritual man and economic man. Powell was the epitome of economic man.
Ideologies, ultimate purposes, the fundamental contradiction between the System's world
view and ours-all these things had no
meaning for him. He regarded the Organization's philosophy as just so much ideological
flypaper designed to catch recruits for us. He
saw our struggle against the System as a contest for power and nothing
more. If we could not whip them, then we should try to force
them to compromise with us.
I wondered how many others in the Organization thought the way Powell did, and I shuddered. We have been forced
to grow too
quickly. There has not been sufficient time to develop in all our people the essentially religious attitude
toward our purpose and our
doctrines which would have prevented the Powell incident by screening him out early.
As it was, we had no real choice in deciding Powell's fate. There was not only his disobedience
to consider, but also the fact that he
had revealed himself to be fundamentally unreliable. To have one of us-and a unit
leader, at that-talking openly to other members
about trying to find a way to compromise with the System, with the war
just beginning .... There was only one way to deal with such a
situation.
The eight male members present drew straws, and three of us, including me, ended up on the execution squad. When Powell
realized that he was going to be killed, he tried to make a break. We tied his hands and feet, and then we had to gag him
when he
began shouting. We drove him to a wooded area off the highway about 10 miles south of Washington, shot him, and
buried him.
I got back a little after midnight, but I still haven't been able to get to sleep. I am very, very depressed.
Chapter VIII
November 4, 1991. Soup and bread
again tonight, and not much of that. Our money is almost gone, and there still hasn't been
anything from WFC. If our
pay doesn't come through in the next couple of days, we'll have to resort to armed robbery again-an
unpleasant prospect.
Unit 2 still has what seems to be an unlimited supply of food, and we'd already be in
a much worse way if they hadn't given us that
carload of canned goods a month ago-especially since we now have seven
mouths to feed. But it is just too dangerous to drive up to
Maryland for our food supply. The chances are too great of
running into a police roadblock.
That is the most noticeable-and to the
public it must be by far the most irritating-consequence to date of our terror campaign. Travel
by private automobile
has become-at least, in the Washington area-a nightmare, with enormous traffic jams everywhere caused by
the police checks.
In the last few days this police activity has increased significantly, and it looks as if it will remain a regular feature
of
life for the foreseeable future.
So far, however, they haven't
been stopping pedestrians, bicyclists, or buses. We can still get around, although less conveniently
than before.
Oops, there go the lights again. This is the second time this evening we've had to break
out the candles. Until this year, the worst
power shortages have occurred in the summer, but it's November now and we're
still stuck with the "temporary" 15 percent voltage
reduction they imposed in July. Even this perpetual "brownout"
isn't saving us from an increasing number of involuntary blackouts.
It's obvious that somebody's profiting from the power
shortage, though. When Katherine was lucky enough to find some candles at
one of the grocery stores last week, she had
to pay S1.50 apiece for them. The price of kerosene and gasoline lanterns has gone out
of sight, but the hardware stores
never have any of them in stock anyway. When I next have some free time, I'll see what I can
improvise in that direction.
We have been maintaining the pressure against the System during the past week with a lot
of one-man, low-risk activities. There
have been approximately 40 grenade attacks against Federal buildings and media
facilities in Washington, for example, and our unit
is responsible for 11 of them.
Since it is now virtually impossible to enter any Federal building except a post office without a complete
body-search, we have had to
be ingenious. On one occasion Henry simply pulled the pin on a fragmentation grenade and
then slipped it down between two
cartons on a big pallet of freight waiting outside the freight door of the Washington
Post, wedging it so that the safety lever was held
in place by the cartons. He didn't wait around, but news reports later
confirmed that there was an explosion inside the Post building
which killed one employee and seriously wounded three
others.
Most often, however, we have used grenade-throwers improvised
from shotguns. They give us a maximum range of more than 150
yards, but the grenade always explodes sooner than that
unless the delay element is modified. All one needs to use them effectively
is a place of concealment within about 100
yards of the target.
We have fired from the back seat of a moving auto,
from the restroom window of an adjacent building, and-at night- from a patch of
shrubbery in a small park across the
street from the target building. With luck one can hit a window and get an explosion inside an
office or a corridor.
But even when the grenade bounces off an outside wall the explosion shatters windows, and the shrapnel keeps
people jumping.
If we keep it up long enough we can probably force the government to shutter all the windows
in Federal buildings, which will certainly
help raise the consciousness of Federal workers. But it is clear that we can't
maintain this kind of activity indefinitely. We lost one of
our best activists yesterday-Roger Greene, from Unit 8-and
we are bound to lose more as time passes. The System must inevitably
win any sort of war of attrition, considering the
numerical advantage they have over us.
We have talked this problem over
among ourselves many times, and we always come back to the same stumbling block: a
revolutionary attitude is virtually
non-existent in America, outside the Organization, and all our activities to date don't seem to have
changed this fact.
The masses of people certainly aren't in love with the System-in fact, their grumbling has increased steadily over
the past six or seven years as living conditions have deteriorated - but they are still far
too comfortable and complacent to entertain
the idea of revolt.
On
top of this is the enormous disadvantage we suffer from having the System controlling the image of us which reaches the public.
We receive a continuous feedback from our "legals" on what the public is thinking, and most people have accepted
without hesitation
the System's portrayal of us as "gangsters" and "murderers."
Without some sort of empathy between us and the general public we can never find enough
new recruits to make up for our losses.
And with the System controlling virtually every channel of communication with
the public, it's hard to see how we're going to develop
that empathy. Our leaflets and the occasional seizure of a broadcasting
station for a few minutes just can't make much headway
against the non-stop torrent of brainwashing the System uses for
keeping the people in line.
The lights have just come on again-now that
I'm ready to hit the sack. Sometimes I think the System's own weaknesses will bring
about its downfall just as quickly
without our help as with it. The incessant power failures are only one crack among thousands in this
crumbling edifice
we are trying so desperately to pull down.
November 8. The last few days
have seen a major change in our domestic affairs. The population in our shop increased to eight last
Thursday, and now
it's down to four again: myself, Katherine, and Bill and Carol Hanrahan, formerly of Unit 6.
Henry and George have teamed
up with Edna Carlson, who also came to us after Unit 6's disaster, and with Dick Wheeler, the only
survivor of a police
raid on Unit I l 's hideout Thursday. The four of them have moved to a new location, in the District.
The new arrangement
has us better divided along functional lines than before-as well as solving the personal problem which had
been worrying
Katherine and me. We here in the shop are now essentially a technical-services unit, while the four who left are a
sabotage-and-assassination
unit.
Bill Hanrahan is a machinist, a mechanic, and a printer. Until two months ago he and Carol operated a printing
shop in Alexandria.
His wife doesn't share his mechanical genius, but she is a reasonably competent printer. As soon
as we get another press set up
here, her job will be to produce many of the leaflets and other propaganda materials which
the Organization clandestinely distributes
in this area.
I will continue to be responsible for the Organization's
communications equipment and for specialized ordnance. Bill will assist me
with the latter and will also be our gunsmith
and armory-keeper.
Katherine will have a chance to exercise her editorial skills again, to a limited extent, in that
she will have the responsibility for
transforming the typewritten propaganda we receive from WFC into camera-ready headlines
and text for Carol. She will be able to
use her own discretion in making condensations, deletions, and other changes
necessary for copy fitting.
Bill and I finished our first special-ordnance
job together yesterday. We modified a 4.2 inch mortar to handle 81 mm projectiles. The
modification was necessary because
we have so far been unable to pick up an 81 mm mortar for the projectiles which we grabbed in
the raid on Aberdeen Proving
Ground last month. One of our gun-buff members, however, had a serviceable 4.2 inch mortar which
he had kept hidden away
since the late 1940's.
The Organization is planning a very important
mission in the next day or two, in which the mortar will be used, and Bill and I were
under pressure to finish the job
on time. Our main difficulty was in finding a piece of steel tube of the right I.D. to weld inside the 4.2
inch tube,
since we have no lathe or other machine tools at this time. Once we found a supplier for the tube the rest was fairly easy,
and we are proud of the result-although it weighs more than three times as much as an 81 mm mortar should.
Today we did a job which was simple enough in theory but which gave us more trouble in
practice than we had anticipated: melting
the explosive filler out of a 500-lb bomb casing. With a great deal of straining
and swearing-and with several good burns from the
boiling water we managed to splash all over ourselves-we got most of
the tritonal explosive from the bomb into a variety of empty
grapefruit juice cans, peanut butter jars, and other containers.
The work took all day and exhausted everyone's patience, but now we
have the makings for enough medium-sized bombs to
last us for months.
I think that I will find Bill Hanrahan a congenial
comrade-in-arms for carrying out our unit's new duties for the Organization. (We are
now designated Unit 6, and I am
in charge.) Certainly the new living arrangement here is more congenial for Katherine and me, now
that we are sharing
OUR building with another married couple instead of with two bachelors.
I just wrote "another married couple," but, of course, that was a slip of the pen, since Katherine and I are not
formally married. In the
last two months-and particularly in the last two or three weeks-however, we have experienced
so much together and become so
dependent on one another for companionship that a bond at least as strong as that of marriage
has developed between us.
In the past, whenever one of us had an Organizational
assignment to carry out, we usually contrived to work together on it. Now such
collaboration will not require any contrivance.
It is interesting that the Organization, which has imposed on
all of us a life which is unnatural in many respects, has led to a more
natural relationship between the sexes inside
the Organization than exists outside. Although unmarried female members are
theoretically "equal" to male members,
in that they are subject to the same discipline, our women are actually cherished and
protected to a much larger degree
than women in the general society are.
Consider rape, for example, which
has become such an omnipresent pestilence these days. It had already been increasing at a rate
of 20 to 25 per cent per
year since the early 1970's until last year, when the Supreme Court ruled that all laws making rape a crime
are unconstitutional,
because they presume a legal difference between the sexes. Rape, the judges ruled, can only be prosecuted
under the statutes
covering nonsexual assaults.
In other words, rape has been reduced to
the status of a punch in the nose. In cases where no physical injury can be proved, it is now
virtually impossible to
obtain a prosecution or even an arrest. The result of this judicial mischief has been that the incidence of rape
has
zoomed to the point that the legal statisticians have recently estimated that one out of every two American women can expect
to
be raped at least once in her lifetime. In many of our big cities, of course, the statistics are much worse.
The women's-lib groups have greeted this development with dismay. It isn't exactly what
they had in mind when they began agitating
for "equality" two decades ago. At least, there's dismay among the
rank and file of such groups; I have a suspicion that their leaders,
most of whom are Jewesses, had this outcome in mind
from the beginning.
Black civil rights spokesmen, on the other hand,
have had only praise for the Supreme Court's decision. Rape laws, they said, are
"racist," because a disproportionately
large number of Blacks have been charged under them.
Nowadays gangs of
Black thugs hang around parking lots and school playgrounds and roam the corridors of office buildings and
apartment
complexes, looking for any attractive, unescorted White girl and knowing that punishment, either from the disarmed
citizenry
or the handcuffed police, is extremely unlikely. Gang rapes in school classrooms have become an especially popular new
sport.
Some particularly liberal women may find that this situation
provides a certain amount of satisfaction for their masochism, a way of
atoning for their feelings of racial "guilt."
But for normal White women it is a daily nightmare.
One of the sickest
aspects of the whole thing is that many young Whites, instead of opposing this new threat to their race, have
apparently
decided to join it. White rapists have become more common, and there have even been instances of integrated rape-
gangs
recently.
Nor have the girls remained entirely passive. Sexual debauchery
of every sort on the part of young White men and women-and even
children in their pre-teens-has reached a level which
would have been unimaginable only two or three years ago. The queers, the
fetishists, the mixed-race couples, the sadists,
and the exhibitionists-urged on by the mass media- are parading their perversions in
public, and the public is joining
them.
Just last week, when Katherine and I went into the District to
pick up the salaries for our unit-which finally came through, when we
were down nearly to our last can of soup-there
was a nasty little incident. While we were waiting at a bus stop for a homeward-bound
bus I decided to run into a drugstore
a few feet away to buy a newspaper. I was gone for no more than 20 seconds, but when I came
back a greasy-looking youth
- approximately White, but with the "Afro" hair style popular among young degenerates - was taunting
Katherine
with obscenities while dancing and weaving around her like a boxer.
(Note
to the reader: "Afro" refers to the Negro or African race, which, until its sudden disappearance during the Great
Revolution,
exerted an increasingly degenerative influence on the culture and life styles of the inhabitants of North
America.)
I grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and hit him
in the face as hard as I could. As he went down I had the deep, primitive
satisfaction of seeing four or five of his
teeth come washing out of his shattered mouth on a copious flow of dark-red blood.
I reached into my pocket for my pistol,
fully intending to kill him on the spot, but Katherine seized my arm, and caution returned.
Instead of shooting him,
I straddled him and directed three kicks at his groin with all my strength. He jerked convulsively and emitted
a short,
choking scream with the first kick, and then he lay still.
Passersby
averted their eyes and hurried on. Across the street two Blacks gawked and hooted. Katherine and I hurried around the
corner.
We walked about six blocks, then doubled back and caught the bus at another stop.
Katherine told me later that the youth had run up to her as soon as I had entered the drugstore. He had put his arm around
her,
propositioned her, and started pawing her breasts. She is fairly strong and agile, and she was able to jerk away
from him, but he
blocked her from following me into the drugstore.
As a rule Katherine carries a pistol, but the day was unseasonably warm, unsuited for a coat, and she wore clothes which
left no
room for concealing a firearm. Since she was with me she hadn't even bothered to carry one of the tear-gas canisters
which have
become essential articles of dress for women these days.
In that regard it is interesting to note that the same people who agitated so hysterically for
gun confiscation before the Cohen Act are
now calling for tear gas to be outlawed too. There have even been cases recently
where women who used their tear gas to fend off
would-be rapists have been charged with armed assault! The world has
become so crazy that nothing really comes as a surprise any
more.
In contrast to the situation outside, rape inside the Organization is almost unthinkable. But there is no doubt at all in
my mind that if a
genuine case of forcible rape did occur, the perpetrator would be rewarded with eight grams of lead
within a matter of hours.
When we got back to the shop, Henry and another
man were waiting for us. Henry wanted me to give him a final rundown on the
sight settings for the mortar we had modified.
When they left, they took the mortar with them. I still don't know what they will use it for.
Katherine and I are both
very fond of Henry, and we will miss his presence in our new unit. He is the kind of person on whom the
success of the
Organization will ultimately depend.
Katherine had already taught Henry
most of her tricks of makeup and disguise, and when he left with the mortar she gave him the
greater part of her supply
of wigs, beards, plastic gizmoes, and cosmetics.
Chapter IX
November 9, 1991. What a day! At two o'clock this afternoon an extraordinary session of the Congress convened
to hear an address
by the President. He was to ask for special legislation which would allow the government to stamp
out "racism" and combat terrorism
more effectively.
One
thing he intended to ask the Congress for, according to the press, was the long-expected internal-passport law. Despite our
destruction last month of the computer to be used with this passport program, the government is obviously pressing ahead
with it.
The Capitol had been surrounded by somewhere between 3,000 and 5,000 secret policemen and armed, uniformed soldiers.
Jeeps
with mounted machine guns were everywhere. There were even two tanks and several APC's.
Members of the press and Congressional staffers had to pass through three separate rings of barricades and
barbed wire, at each of
which they were thoroughly searched for weapons, in order to approach the Capitol. Helicopters
whirred overhead. No band of
guerrillas bent on sabotage or assassination could have gotten within two blocks of the
place, even in a suicide dash.
In fact, the government obviously overdid
the security arrangements just to heighten the sense of urgency of the occasion. The
spectacle of all the troops and
guns around the Capitol left no doubt in the minds of the TV viewers, I am sure, that there is an
emergency situation
in the country which calls for the strongest possible measures from the government.
Then, as the TV cameras were preparing to switch from the crowded scene outside the Capitol to the speaker's
podium in the House
chamber, where the President would be speaking, a mortar round-although no one realized that's what
it was- exploded about 200
yards northwest of the building. TV watchers heard the explosion but couldn't see anything
except an indistinct puff of gray smoke
floating above the Capitol.
For the next few seconds there was general confusion. Soldiers with gas masks on were scurrying in one direction, while
grim-faced
secret policemen with drawn pistols were running in the other direction. The TV commentator announced breathlessly
that someone
had set off a bomb in one of the Capitol parking lots.
He babbled on for a little less than a minute, speculating as to who had done it, how they had managed to get the bomb past
the
security forces, how many persons had been hurt by the blast, and so on. Then the second round landed.
This one went off with a bang and a flash about 50 yards in front of the TV camera. It
made almost a direct hit on a squad of soldiers
manning a machine gun behind a heap of sandbags in the Capitol's east
parking lot.
"It's our mortar!" I shouted. It must have also
dawned simultaneously on every man with military experience watching the scene that a
mortar was responsible for the
two explosions.
Mortars are marvelous little weapons, especially for
guerrilla warfare. They drop their deadly rounds silently and almost vertically onto
their target. They can be fired
from total cover, and persons in the target area cannot tell from which direction the projectiles are
coming.
In this case I guessed immediately that our people were firing from a secluded, densely
wooded area on the west bank of the
Potomac, just over two miles from the Capitol. Henry and I had checked the area out
some time ago for just such a purpose, because
every important Federal building in Washington is within 81 mm-mortar
range of it.
About 45 seconds after the second round the third one landed
on the roof of the south wing of the Capitol and exploded inside the
building. They had the range now, and the projectiles
began raining down at four-to-five second intervals. Practically everyone,
including most of the TV crews, had scrambled
for cover, but one intrepid cameraman remained at his post.
We saw beautiful
blossoms of flame and steel sprouting everywhere, dancing across the asphalt, thundering in the midst of splintered
masonry
and burning vehicles, erupting now inside and now outside the Capitol, wreaking their bloody toll in the ranks of tyranny
and
treason.It was all over in about three minutes, but while it lasted it was the most magnificent spectacle I have
ever seen. What an impression
it must have made on the general public watching it on TV!
And there was more excitement today, both in California and New York. The Los Angeles City Council was convened
for the sake of
watching a telecast of the President's address to Congress before voting on several "anti-racist"
ordinances of their own. Just about
the time the fireworks started here, four of our men, using phony police identification,
walked into the council meeting there and
began throwing grenades. Eight council members were killed outright, and our
men made a clean getaway.
An hour earlier, in New York, the Organization
used a bazooka to shoot down an airliner which had just taken off for Tel Aviv with a
load of vacationing dignitaries,
mostly Jews. There were no survivors. (Note to the reader: A "bazooka" was a portable launcher for
small rockets,
used primarily as an infantry weapon against armored vehicles during World War 11, 60-54 BNE, and already obsolete
by
8 BNE. Tel Aviv was the largest city in Palestine during the period of Jewish occupation of that unfortunate country in the
Old Era.
The ruins of the city are still too radioactive for human habitation.)
All in all, it has been a busy day for the Organization! I am greatly invigorated by these demonstrations of
our capability for launching
multiple, simultaneous strikes against the System, and I am sure that the same is true of
all our comrades.
Despite all the noise and smoke and wreckage caused
by our attack on the Capitol, only 61 persons were killed, we learned from
later news reports. Among these are two Congressmen,
one sub-cabinet official, and four or five senior Congressional staffers. But
the real value of all our attacks today
lies in the psychological impact, not in the immediate casualties.
For
one thing, our efforts against the System gained immeasurably in credibility. More important, though, is what we taught the
politicians and the bureaucrats. They learned this afternoon that not one of them is beyond our reach. They can huddle behind
barbed wire and tanks in the city, or they can hide behind the concrete walls and alarm systems of their country estates,
but we can
still find them and kill them. All the armed guards and bulletproof limousines in America cannot guarantee
their safety. That is a
lesson they will not forget.
Now they are
all raging at us and solemnly promising the public that they will stamp us out, but after they have had a chance to think
about it some of them will be ready to consider "buying insurance." The great weakness of the System is its utter
moral corruption.
They have us vastly out manned and outgunned, but not one of their leaders is motivated by anything
other than self-interest. They
are ready to betray the System the instant they can see an advantage in doing so.
For now, we mustn't let them know that they are all inevitably headed for the gallows.
Let them think they can make a deal with us
and save their necks when the System falls. Only the Jews are under no illusions
in this regard.
As for the public, it's a little early yet to know what
the spectrum of their reactions to today's exploits will be. Most of them, of course,
will believe just what they're
told to believe. Basically, they want to be left alone with their beer and their television sets. Their
mentality is
a reflection of the movie-fan magazines and the TV sitcoms with which the System keeps them saturated. (Note to the
reader:
The word "sitcom" apparently refers to a type of television program popular during the last years of the Old Era.)
Nevertheless, we must carefully monitor the public's feelings toward the System and toward
us. Although the great majority of them
will continue to support the System as long as their refrigerators are kept full,
it is from the public that we must draw our recruits in
order to make up for our losses.
Our present inability to recruit is a source of great worry to everyone. Rumor has it that there has not been
a single new recruit in the
Washington area in the last two months. During that time we've lost approximately 15 per
cent of our strength. I hope conditions
aren't as bad elsewhere.
Of
all the segments of the population from which we had hoped to draw new members, the "conservatives" and "right
wingers" have
been the biggest disappointment. They are the world's worst conspiracy-mongers - and also the world's
greatest cowards. In fact,
their cowardice is exceeded only by their stupidity.
The current conspiracy theory being circulated among conservatives is that the Organization is actually in
the pay of the System. We
are hired provocateurs whose job is to raise enough hell to justify the repressive counterrevolutionary
and anti-racist measures the
System is taking. If we would just stop rocking the boat, things would be easier on everyone.
Whether they believe that theory or not,
it gives them an excuse for not joining us.
At the other extreme, the knee-jerk liberals have forgotten all about their "radical chic" enthusiasm
of a few years ago, now that we
are the radicals. They take their ideological cues from the "smart" magazines
and columnists, and the "in' thing at the moment is to be
solidly pro-System. In their own way, the liberals, despite
their pretensions to sophistication, are as mindless and as easily
manipulated as the conservatives.
The Christians are a mixed bag. Some of them are among our most devoted and courageous
members. Their hatred of the System is
based on-in addition to the reasons the rest of us have-their recognition of the
System's role in undermining and perverting
Christendom.
But all the ones who are still affiliated with major churches are against us. The Jewish takeover of the Christian
churches and
corruption of the ministry are now virtually complete. The pulpit prostitutes preach the System's party
line to their flocks every
Sunday, and they collect their 30 pieces of silver in the form of government "study"
grants, "brotherhood" awards, fees for speaking
engagements, and a good press.
The libertarians are another group which is divided. About half of them support the System and half are against
it. They are all
against us, however. The ones who are against the System just happen to see the System as a bigger threat
than the Organization.
As our credibility grows, more and more libertarians will support the System. There is probably
no way we can use this group.
No, there is not much hope for making inroads into any of these various ideological segments
of the population. If we are able to find
new recruits, it will be among those who are presently uncommitted.
The System's brainwashing has not bent everyone's mind out of shape. There are still millions
and millions of good people out there
who neither believe the System's propaganda nor have allowed themselves to be seduced
to the animal-like level of existence of so
many who live solely for the sake of gratifying their senses. How can we
motivate these people to join us?
Life is uglier and uglier these days,
more and more Jewish. But it is still moderately comfortable, and comfort is the great corrupter,
the great maker of
cowards. It seems that, for the time being, we have already caught all the real revolutionaries in America in our
net.
Now we must learn how to make some more, and quickly.
November 14. We
had a visit from Henry today, and I learned some of the details of Monday's mortar attack on the Capitol. It had
involved
only three of our people: Henry and the man who helped him carry the mortar parts and the projectiles to their pre-selected
firing spot in the woods and get everything set up, and a girl with a small transmitter in a park a few blocks from the
Capitol who
served as a spotter. She radioed range corrections to Henry's helper, while Henry dropped the projectiles
into the tube. The range
settings I had calculated had been almost perfect.
They used up all the 81 mm ammunition which was stolen from Aberdeen last month, and Henry wanted to know whether I could
improvise some more. I explained to him the difficulty of the task.
Bombs
we can make-fairly sophisticated ones, too. But mortar projectiles are something else. They are far too complex for our
present capabilities. Anything I might be able to improvise would be a very crude approximation to the real thing, with
nowhere near
the accuracy. We will just have to raid another armory, with all the risks that entails, before we can use
our mortar again.
Another thing I talked to Henry about is the rash of
relatively minor bombings which have occurred in the last two or three days. There
have been a hundred or more of them
all around the country, including four in Washington, and they have puzzled me in several
respects, mainly the choice
of targets - banks, department stores, corporation offices-but also their apparent amateurishness. For
every bomb which
exploded, it seems that the police discovered at least one which fizzled.
Henry confirmed my suspicions: the bombings-at least, those in this area-are not the work of the Organization. That is interesting.
We
seem to have unintentionally galvanized some of the latent anarchists-or God knows what-who have been lurking in the
woodwork.
The media, of course, have been attributing everything to us- which is embarrassing, in view of the amateurishness-but
perhaps the
phenomenon itself is not a bad development. At least, the secret police will have a lot more to keep them
busy, and that will take
some of the pressure off us.
The growth
of nihilism, which the System has encouraged for so long, may now be paying off for us instead of for the System. Today
I had a rather interesting experience myself in this regard.
I had
to go into Georgetown to take care of a minor communications problem for Unit 4. Georgetown, once the most stylish area of
Washington, has succumbed in the last five years to the same plague which has turned the rest of the nation's capital into
an asphalt
jungle. Most of the high-priced shops have given way to "gay" bars, massage parlors, porn stalls,
liquor stores, and similar capitalist
ventures. Garbage litters the sidewalks, and Blacks, who used to be pretty scarce
there, are swarming all over.
But there are still many Whites living
in Georgetown-after a fashion. The once-fashionable townhouses have their windows boarded
up now, but many are occupied
by colonies of squatters, mostly young dropouts and runaways.
They lead
a marginal, brutal existence, begging for handouts in the streets, rummaging through trash bins for leftovers, occasionally
stealing. Some of the girls engage in casual prostitution. Virtually all of them-or so I thought until today -keep themselves
in a
permanently drugged condition. Since the System stopped enforcing the drug laws last year, heroin has been about
as cheap and
easy to get as cigarettes.
The cops generally leave
them alone, although some of the stories about what goes on among these kids are horrifying. Inside their
strongholds,
the boarded-up buildings in which they cook and eat and sleep and make love and give birth and pump dope into their
veins
and die, they seem to have reverted to a pre-civilized life style. Kooky religious cults, involving lots of incense and incantations,
flourish among them. Various brands of Satan-worship, reminiscent of the ancient Semitic cults,
are especially prevalent. Ritual
torture and ritual murder are rumored to take place, as well as ritual cannibalism,
ritual sex orgies, and other non-Western practices.
I had finished my
chore for Unit 4-which, having some of our more Bohemian members, blends more unobtrusively into the
Georgetown scene
than any of our other units could-and was headed back to the bus stop when I came across an all-too-familiar
incident.
Two young thugs-they looked like Puerto Ricans or Mexicans-were struggling on the sidewalk with a redheaded girl, trying to
pull her into a doorway.
A prudent citizen would have passed by without
interfering, but I stopped, watched for a moment, and then started toward the
struggling trio. The two swarthy males
were distracted just enough by my approach to give the girl a chance to break free. They
glared at me and shouted a few
obscenities, but they did not try to catch the girl, who quickly put a hundred feet or so between
herself and her would-be
abductors.
I turned and went on my way. The girl walked slowly, allowing
me to catch up to her. "Thanks," she said, flashing me a warm smile.
She was really quite pretty, but very
shabbily dressed and no older than 17-obviously one of Georgetown's "street people. "
I chatted with her as we walked along. One of the first pieces of information I elicited from her was that
she had not eaten in two days
and was very hungry. We stopped at a sidewalk diner, and I bought her a hamburger and a
milkshake. After that she was still hungry,
so l bought another hamburger and some french fries for her.
While she ate we talked, and I learned several interesting things. One was that life among
the dropouts is more diversified than I had
thought. There are colonies which are on drugs and colonies which strictly
abstain from drugs, colonies which are racially mixed and
all-White colonies, sexually balanced colonies and all-male
"wolf packs." The groups are also divided along religious-cult lines.
Elsa-that is her name-said she has never been on drugs. She left the group she was living with two days ago, after a domestic
dispute, and was in the process of being dragged into the lair of a "wolf pack" when I happened by.
She also gave me some good leads as to who is responsible for the recent bombings which
puzzled Henry and me. It seems to be
general knowledge among her friends that several of the Georgetown colonies are
"into that sort of thing-you know, trashing the
pigs."
Elsa
herself seems to be completely apolitical and not concerned one way or another about the bombings. I didn't want to pry too
much and make her think I was a cop, so I didn't push her for more information on the subject.
Under the circumstances I really couldn't afford to bring Elsa back to our headquarters with me-but I still
had to fight the temptation. I
slipped her a five-dollar bill when we parted, and she assured me she would find a place
for herself in one of the groups without
difficulty. Probably she would go back to the group she had left. She gave me
their address, so I could look her up.
Thinking it over this evening,
it seems to me that we may be overlooking some potentially useful allies among these young dropouts.
Individually they
are not very impressive, to be sure, but it may very well be that we can make use of them in a collective wav. It bears
further consideration.
Chapter X
November
16, 1991. The response of the System to last week's mortar attack is taking shape. For one thing it's more difficult to move
around in public now. Police and troops have greatly stepped up their spot checks, and they're stopping everyone, pedestrians
as
well as vehicles. There are announcements on the radio about once an hour warning people that they are subject to
summary arrest
if they are unable to establish their identity when stopped.
The Organization has already been able to furnish some of us with forged driver's licenses and other false identification,
but it will be
some time before everyone in the Washington area has been taken care of. Yesterday Carol had a close call.
She had gone to a
supermarket to buy the week's groceries for our unit, and a police patrol arrived while she was in
the checkout line. They stationed
men at each exit and required everyone leaving the store to show them satisfactory
identification.
Just as Carol was ready to leave, there was a commotion
at one exit. The police had been questioning a man who apparently was
carrying no identification, and he became belligerent.
When the cops tried to put handcuffs on him he slugged one of them and tried
to run.
They tackled him before he had gone more than a few feet, but the cops stationed at the other exits all ran
over to help. Carol was
able to slip out a temporarily unguarded exit with her groceries.
All this identity-checking has diverted the police from their regular duties, and the Blacks and other criminal
elements are really taking
advantage of it. Some Army personnel are also participating in the identity-checking and other
police operations, but their main duty
is still guarding government buildings and media facilities.
The most interesting development is that the Human Relations Councils have also been given
emergency police powers, and they
are "deputizing" large numbers of Blacks from the welfare rolls, the way
they did for the Gun Raids. In the District and in Alexandria
some of these deputized Blacks are already swaggering around
and stopping Whites on the streets.
There are rumors that they are demanding
bribes from those they stop, threatening them with arrest if they don't pay. And they have
been hauling some White women
into their "field headquarters" for "questioning." There they are stripped, gangraped, and beaten-all
in the name of the law!
The news media aren't breathing a word about
these outrages, of course, but the word is still getting around. People are angry and
frightened, but they don't know
what to do. Without arms, there is little they can do. They are completely at the mercy of the System.
It's hard to figure
why the System is deliberately stirring things up by deputizing Blacks again, after the enormous amount of
resentment
that caused two years ago. We've talked it over among ourselves in the unit, and our opinions are divided. Everyone but
me seems to think that the events of last Monday panicked the System and caused them to overreact again.
Maybe, but I don't think so. They've had two months now to become used to the idea of
a guerrilla war between them and us. And it's
been nearly five weeks since we really bloodied their noses for the first
time by blowing up the FBI building.
They know that our underground strength
nationwide couldn't be more than 2,000-and they must also know that they are wearing us
down. I think they are unleashing
the Blacks on the Whites strictly as a preventive measure. By terrifying the White population they
will make it more
difficult for us to recruit, thus speeding our demise.
Bill argues, to
the contrary, that the White reaction to the renewed activities of the Human Relations Councils and their gangs of
"deputies"
will make recruiting easier for us. To a certain extent that was true in 1989, but White Americans have become so
acclimatized
to the growing openness of the System's tyranny in the last two years that I believe the latest move will serve more to
intimidate than to arouse them. We'll see.
Meanwhile, there's a mountain
of work waiting for me. Washington Field Command has requested that I furnish them with 30 new
transmitters and 100 new
receivers before the end of the year. I don't know how I can do it, but I'd better get started.
November 27. Until today,
I've been working my tail off, day and night, trying to get the communications equipment built that WFC
wants. Three days ago-Tuesday-I rounded up the last of the components needed and set up an assembly line here in
the shop,
pressing Carol and Katherine into service. By having them perform some of the simpler operations in the assembly
process, I may be
able to meet my deadline after all.
Yesterday,
however, I received a summons from WFC which kept me away from the shop from early this morning until 10 o'clock
tonight.
One of the purposes of the summons was a "loyalty check. "
I
didn't know that before I reached the address I had been given, however. It was the little gift shop in which Harry Powell's
trial took
place.
A guard ushered me into a small office off the
basement storeroom. Two men were waiting for me there. One was the Major Williams
from Revolutionary Command whom I met
earlier. The other was a Dr. Clark-one of our legals-and, as I soon learned, a clinical
psychologist.
Williams explained to me that the Organization has developed a testing process for new
underground recruits. Its function is to
determine the recruit's true motivations and attitudes and to screen out those
sent to us as infiltrators by the secret police, as well as
those deemed unfit for other reasons.
In addition to new recruits, however, a number of veteran members of the Organization are also being tested:
namely, those whose
duties have given them access to information which would be of special value to the secret police.
My detailed knowledge of our
communications system alone would put me in that category, and my work has also brought
me into contact with an unusually large
number of our members in other units.
We originally planned that no member in an underground unit would know the identity being used by-or the unit location of
-any
member outside his own unit. In practice, though, we have badly compromised that plan. The way things have developed
in the last
two months, there are now several of us in the Washington area who could betray- either voluntarily or through
torture-a large
number of other members.
We exercised great care
in the recruiting and evaluation of new members after the Gun Raids, of course, but nothing like what I was
subjected
to this morning. There were injections of some drug-at least two, but I was in a fog after the first one and can't be sure
how
many more there were-and half-a-dozen electrodes were attachéd to various parts of my body. A bright, pulsing
light filled my eyes,
and I lost all contact with my surroundings, except through the voices of my interrogators.
The next thing I remember is yawning and stretching as I woke up on a cot in the basement
nearly three hours later, although I was
told that the interrogation itself lasted less than half an hour. I felt refreshed,
with no apparent aftereffects of whatever drug I was
given.
The
guard came over to me as I stood up. I could hear muffled voices from the closed office; someone else was being interrogated.
And I saw another man sleeping on a cot a few feet from mine. I suspect he had recently gone through the same process I
had.
I was led into another basement room, a tiny cubicle containing only a chair and a small, metal table-actually,
a typewriter stand. On
the table was a black, plastic binder, perhaps two inches thick, of the sort in which typewritten
reports are bound. The guard told me
that I was to read everything in the binder very carefully, and that Major Williams
would then talk to me again. He pulled the door
closed as he went out.
I had barely sat down when a girl brought me a plate of sandwiches and a mug of hot coffee. I thanked the girl, and, as
I was hungry,
I began sipping the coffee and munching a sandwich while I casually read the first page of the material
in the binder.
When I finished the last page some four hours later I
noticed that the sandwiches-including an uneaten portion of the one I had
started-were still on the plate. The mug was
nearly full of thoroughly cold coffee. It was as if I had just returned to earth- to the room-
after a thousand-year
voyage through space.
What I had read-it amounted to a book of about
400 typed pages-had lifted me out of this world, out of my day-to-day existence as an
underground fighter for the Organization,
and it had taken me to the top of a high mountain from which I could see the whole world,
with all its nations and tribes
and races, spread out before me. And I could see the ages spread out before me too, from the
steaming, primordial swamps
of a hundred million years ago to the unlimited possibilities which the centuries and the millennia ahead
hold for us.
The book placed our present struggle-the Organization and its goals and what is at stake-in
a much larger context than I have ever
really considered before. That is, I had thought about many of the things in the
book before, but I had never put them all together into
a single, coherent pattern. I had never seen the whole picture
so clearly. (Note to the reader: It is obvious that Turner is referring to
the Book. We know from other evidence that
it was written approximately ten years before the Record of Martyrs, in which it is
mentioned-i.e., probably sometime
in 9 BNE, or 1990 according to the old chronology. Turner mentions "typed pages," but it is not
clear whether
he means reproductions of typewritten pages or the originals themselves. If the latter is the case, then we may have
here
the only extant reference to the original copy of the Book! Several reproductions of the original typescript in binders fitting
Turner's description have survived and are preserved in the Archives, but archeologists still
have found no trace of the original.)
For the first time I understand
the deepest meaning of what we are doing. I understand now why we cannot fail, no matter what we
must do to win and no
matter how many of us must perish in doing it. Everything that has been and everything that is yet to be
depend on us.
We are truly the instruments of God in the fulfillment of His Grand Design. These may seem like strange words to be
coming
from me, who has never been religious, but they are utterly sincere words.
I was still sitting there, thinking about what I had read, when Major Williams opened the door. He started to ask me to
go with him,
when he noticed that I hadn't finished my sandwiches. He brought another chair into the tiny room and invited
me to finish eating
while we talked.
I learned several very interesting
things during our brief conversation. One is that, contrary to my earlier belief, the Organization is
getting a steady
trickle of new recruits. None of us had realized it, because WFC has been putting the new people into brand-new
units.
That's why the new communications equipment is needed.
Another thing
I found out is that a significant fraction of the new recruits have been secret-police spies. Fortunately, the
Organization's
leadership foresaw this threat and devised a remedy in time. They realized that, once we went underground, the only
way
we could safely continue recruiting would be to screen new people in a foolproof way.
Here's the way it works: When our legals have someone who says he wants to join the Organization, he is turned
over immediately to
Dr. Clark. Dr. Clark's method of interrogation leaves no room for evasion or deceit. As Major Williams
explained it, if the candidate
flunks the test he never wakes up from his little nap afterward.
That way, the System can never find out why their spies are disappearing. So far, he said, we have caught more
than 30 would-be
infiltrators, including several women.
I shuddered
to think what would have happened if my own interrogation had revealed me to be too unstable or lacking in loyalty to be
trusted with what I know. And I felt a momentary flash of resentment that Dr. Clark, who is not even an underground member,
should
have held the decision of life or death for me in his hands.
The resentment quickly passed, however, when I considered that there is really no stigma to being a legal. The only reason
Dr. Clark
is not in the underground is that his name was not on the FBI's arrest list in September. Our legals play just
as vital a role in our
struggle as do those of us underground. They are vital to our propaganda and recruiting effort-our
only close contact with the world
outside the Organization-and they run even more of a risk of being found out and arrested
than we do.
Major Williams must have sensed my thoughts, because he put
his hand on my shoulder, smiled, and assured me that my test had
gone very well. So well, in fact, that I was to be initiated
into a select, inner structure within the Organization. Reading the book I had
just finished was the first step in that
initiation.
The next step took place about an hour later. Six of us were
gathered in a loose semi-circle in the shop upstairs. It was after business
hours, and the blinds were tightly drawn.
The only light came from two large candles toward the back of the shop.
I was the next to the last to enter the room. At the top of the stairs the same girl who had brought my sandwiches stopped
me and
handed me a robe of some coarse, grey material with a hood attachéd-something like a monk's robe. After
I had put on the robe she
showed me where to stand and cautioned me to be silent.
Their features shadowed by their hoods, I could not make out the faces of any of my companions in that strange,
little gathering. As
the sixth participant reached the doorway at the top of the stairs, however, I turned and was startled
to glimpse a tall, burly man in the
uniform of a sergeant of the District of Columbia Metropolitan Police slipping into
a robe.
Finally, from another door, at the back, Major Williams entered.
He also wore one of the grey robes, but his hood was thrown back so
that the two candles, one on either side, illuminated
his face.
He spoke to us in a quiet voice, explaining that each of us
who had been selected for membership in the Order had passed the test of
the Word and the test of the Deed. That is,
we have all proved ourselves, not only through a correct attitude toward the Cause, but
also through our acts in the
struggle for the realization of the Cause.
As members of the Order we
are to be the bearers of the Faith. Only from our ranks will the future leaders of the Organization come.
He told us
many other things too, reiterating some of the ideas I had just read.
The
Order, he explained, will remain secret, even within the Organization, until the successful completion of the first phase
of our
task: the destruction of the System. And he showed us the Sign by which we might recognize one another.
And then we swore the Oath-a mighty Oath, a moving Oath that shook me to my bones and
raised the hair on the back of my neck.
As we filed out one by one, at intervals
of about a minute, the girl at the door took our robes, and Major Williams placed a gold chain
with a small pendant around
each of our necks. He had already told us about these. Inside each pendant is a tiny, glass capsule. We
are to wear them
at all times, day and night.
Whenever danger is especially imminent and
we might be captured, we are to remove the capsules from the pendants and carry
them in our mouths. And if we are captured
and can see no hope of immediate escape, we are to break the capsules with our teeth.
Death will be painless and almost
instantaneous.
Now our lives truly belong only to the Order. Today I
was, in a sense, born again. I know now that I will never again be able to look at
the world or the people around me
or my own life in quite the same way I did before.
When I undressed for
bed last night, Katherine immediately spotted my new pendant and asked about it, of course. She also wanted
to know what
I had been doing all day.
Fortunately, Katherine is the sort of girl
with whom one can be completely truthful-a rare jewel, indeed. I explained to her the function
of the pendant and told
her that it is necessary because of a new task I am undertaking for the Organization-a task whose details I
have obliged
myself to tell no one, at least for the present. She was obviously curious, but she didn't press me further.
Chapter
XI
November 28, 1991. A disturbing thing happened tonight which
could have had fatal consequences for all of us. A carload of young
junkies tried to break into the building here, evidently
thinking it was deserted, and we had to dispose of all of them and their car. This
is the first time something like this
has happened, but the abandoned appearance of this place may invite more trouble of the same
sort in the future.
We were all upstairs eating when the car pulled into our parking area and triggered our
perimeter alarm. Bill and I went into the
darkened garage downstairs and uncovered a peephole, so that we could see who
was outside.
The car had cut off its lights, and one occupant had gotten
out and was trying our door. He then began pulling loose the boards which
were nailed over the glass in the door. Another
youth got out and came over to help him. We couldn't see their features in the
darkness, but we could hear them talking.
They were obviously Negroes, and they obviously intended to get into the place, one way
or another.
Bill tried to discourage them. In his best imitation-ghetto accent he shouted through
the door: "Hey, man, dis place occupied. Move
yo' ass on outa heah."
The two Blacks jumped back from the door, startled. They began whispering to one another, and two other figures
from the car joined
them. Then a dialogue began between Bill and one of the Blacks. It went about like this:
"We
didn' know anybody was here, brother. We jes' lookin' for a place to shoot up."
"Well, now you knows. So, git!"
"Why you so hostile, brother? Let us in. We got some stuff and some chicks. You by
yo'se'f?"
"No, I ain' by myse'f, an' I don' wan' no stuff. You jes' better move on, man." (Note to the
reader: The dialect of the Negroes in
America contained many special terms relating to drug usage, which was endemic
among them up to the end. "Stuff" meant heroin,
an opium derivative which was especially popular. To "shoot
up" was to inject the heroin into a vein. Both the Negro's drug habits and
much of his dialect spread to the White
population of America during the period of government-enforced racial mixing in the last five
decades of the Old Era.)
But Bill was unsuccessful in his attempt to discourage them. The second Black began a
rhythmic pounding on the garage door,
chanting over and over, "Open up, brother, open up." Someone in the car
turned on a radio, and Negro music began blaring at a
deafening volume.
Since the last thing we could afford was to attract the attention of the police or of someone at the trucking firm next
door with a
continuation of this noisy scene, Bill and I quickly made a plan. We armed both the girls with shotguns and
posted them behind crates
to one side of the shop area. I took a pistol, slipped out the rear door, and silently crept
around the side of the building, so that I could
cover the intruders from the outside. Then Bill announced, "Awright,
awright. I open de do', man. You drive yo' car right in."
While
Bill began raising the garage door, one of the Blacks went back to the car and started the engine. Bill stood to one side
and
kept his head lowered, so that when the car's lights hit him his white skin was not conspicuous. When everyone was
inside, he began
lowering the door again. The Blacks' car had not pulled in far enough for the door to close completely,
however, and the driver
ignored his command to move ahead another foot.
Then one of the Blacks on foot got a better look at Bill and immediately raised the alarm. "Dis ain' no brother,"
he cried.
Bill flipped on the shop lights, and the girls came out from their places of concealment as I slipped in under
the partly closed door.
"Everyone out of the car and flat on the floor," Bill ordered, yanking open the door
on the driver's side. "Come on, niggers, move!
"They looked at the
four guns trained on them, and then they moved, although not without loud protest. Two of them, however, were
not Negroes.
When they were all stretched out on the concrete floor face down, all six of them, we saw that we had three Black
males,
one Black female-and two White sluts. I shook my head in disgust at the sight of the two White girls, neither of whom
appeared
to be over 18.
It didn't take long to decide what to do. We couldn't
afford the noise of gunshots, so I took a heavy crowbar and Bill picked up a
shovel. We started at opposite ends of the
crew on the floor, while the girls kept them covered with their shotguns. We worked quickly
but precisely, one blow on
the back of the head sufficing for each of them.
Until the last two,
that is. The blade of Bill's shovel glanced off the skull of one of the Black males and struck the shoulder of the White
girl beside him, cutting into her flesh but not inflicting a lethal wound. Before I could bring my crowbar into play to
finish her off, the
little bitch was up like a shot.
I had pushed
the garage door down as far as I could after coming in, but it still had not latched properly and had meanwhile crept up
about six inches. She scooted through this narrow opening and headed for the street, with me about 10 yards behind her.
I froze with horror as I saw an arc of light swing along the dark pavement just in front
of the running girl. A large truck was turning into
the street from the parking lot next door. If the girl reached the
street she would be illuminated by the truck's headlights, and the driver
could not fail to see her.
Without hesitation I raised my pistol and fired, instantly dropping the girl in her tracks
beside the weed-overgrown fence separating
our parking area from that of the trucking firm. It was a very lucky shot,
not only in its effect, but also in that the roar from the engine
of the accelerating truck effectively masked the report.
I crouched in the driveway, drenched in a cold sweat, until the truck had
thundered off into the distance.
Bill and I loaded the six corpses into the back of the Blacks' car. He drove it off, with
Carol following him in our vehicle, and left the
grisly cargo parked outside a Black restaurant in downtown Alexandria.
Let the police figure it out!
The work on the new communications equipment
is coming along quite well. The girls put so many units together before supper
today-and the unfortunate events of the
evening-that I couldn't keep up with the tuning and testing, which is my part of the work. If I
had a better oscilloscope
and a few other instruments, I could do more.
November 30. In thinking
over Saturday's events, what surprises me is that I feel no remorse or regret for killing those two White
whores. Six
months ago I couldn't imagine myself calmly butchering a teen-aged White girl, no matter what she had done. But I have
become much more realistic about life recently. I understand that the two girls were with the Blacks only because they had
been
infected with the disease of liberalism by the schools and the churches and the plastic pop culture the System churns
out for young
people these days. Presumably, if they had been raised in a healthy society they would have had some racial
pride.
But such considerations are irrelevant to the present phase of
our struggle. Until we have in our hands the means for bringing about a
general cure for the disease, we must deal with
it by other means, just as one must ruthlessly weed out and dispose of diseased
animals in any flock, unless one wants
to lose the whole flock. This is no time for womanly hand wringing.
This
lesson was brought home forcefully to all of us by what we saw on the TV news this evening. The Human Relations Council in
Chicago organized a huge "anti-racism" rally today. The purported excuse for the rally was to protest the machine-gunning
of a
carload of Black "deputies" Friday, in downtown Chicago in broad daylight, presumably by the Organization.
Only three Blacks were
killed in the incident, but the System seized on it in order to squelch the seething White resentment
against the Human Relations
Councils and their deputized Black goon squads. Apparently these Black "deputies"
have perpetrated even more shocking outrages
against defenseless Whites in Chicago than they have around here.
The Chicago rally, which was vigorously promoted by all the mass media in the Chicago
area, involved nearly 200,000 demonstrators
in its initial stage-more than half of them Whites. Hundreds of special buses,
contributed by the city transit authorities, brought in
people from all the suburbs for the occasion. Thousands of young
Black thugs, wearing the armbands of the Chicago Human
Relations Council, strutted arrogantly through the huge mob-"maintaining
order."
The rally was addressed by all the usual political prostitutes
and pulpit prostitutes, who issued pious calls for "brotherhood" and
"equality." Then the system
trotted out one of their local Toms, who gave a rousing speech about stamping out "the evil of White
racism"
once and for all. (Note to the reader: A "Tom" was a Negro front man for the authorities or for Jewish interests.
Experts at
manipulating the masses of their own race, they were paid well for their services. Some "Toms" were
even employed briefly by the
Organization during the final stages of the Revolution, when it was desired to flush millions
of Negroes out of certain urban areas into
holding camps with a minimum loss of White lives.)
After that, the skilled agitators of the Human Relations Council worked various sections of the crowd up into
a real brotherhood
frenzy. These swarthy, kinky-haired little Jewboys with transistorized megaphones really knew their
business. They had the mob
screaming with real blood lust for any "White racist" who might be unfortunate enough
to fall into their hands.
Chanting "Kill
the racists" and other expressions of brotherly love, the mob began a march through downtown Chicago. Shoppers,
workers,
and businessmen on the sidewalks were ordered by the Black "deputies" to join the march. Anyone who refused was
beaten
without mercy.
Then gangs of Blacks began going into the
stores and office buildings along the march route, using bullhorns to order everyone out
into the street. Usually it
was only necessary to kick one or two stubborn Whites into a senseless, bloody pulp before the rest of the
occupants
of a department store or building lobby got the idea and enthusiastically joined the demonstration.
As the crowd swelled, approaching a half-million persons toward the end, the Blacks with the armbands became
more and more
belligerent. Any White in the crowd who looked as if he wasn't chanting loudly enough was likely to be
attacked.
And there were several particularly vicious incidents which
the TV cameras gloatingly zoomed in on. Someone in the crowd started
the rumor that a book store they were approaching
sold "racist" books. Within a minute or two a group of several hundred
demonstrators-mostly young Whites this
time-had split off from the main crowd and converged on the book store. Windows were
smashed, and teams of demonstrators
inside the store began hurling armloads of books to others outside.
After
an initial flurry of rage was dissipated by wildly tearing handfuls of pages from the books and throwing them into the air,
a
bonfire was started on the sidewalk for the rest of the books. Then they dragged out a White salesclerk and began beating
him. He
fell to the pavement, and the mob surged over him, stomping and kicking. The television screen showed a close-up
of the scene. The
faces of the White demonstrators were contorted with hatred -for their own race!
Another incident in which the TV viewers were treated to close-up coverage was the killing of a cat. A large,
white alley cat was
spotted by someone in the crowd, who started the cry, "Get the honky cat!" About a dozen
demonstrators took off down an alley after
the unfortunate cat. When they reappeared a few moments later, holding up
the bloody carcass of the cat, an exultant cheer went up
from those in the crowd near enough to see what had happened.
Sheer insanity!
It is impossible to put into words how depressed we all
are by the spectacle in Chicago. That, of course, was the aim of the
organizers of the rally. They are expert psychologists,
and they thoroughly understand the use of mass terror for intimidation. They
know that millions of people who still oppose
them inwardly will now be too frightened to open their mouths.
But how
could our people-how could White Americans-be so spineless, so crawling, so eager to please their oppressors? How can
we
recruit a revolutionary army from such a rabble?
Is this really the same
race that walked on the moon and was reaching for the stars 20 years ago? How low we have been brought!
It is frighteningly
clear now that there is no way to win the struggle in which we are engaged without shedding torrents- veritable
rivers-of
blood.
The carload of carrion we left in Alexandria Saturday was mentioned
briefly on the local news but not at all on the national news. The
reason for the downplay, I suspect is not that sextuple
killings have become too commonplace to be newsworthy, but that the
authorities recognized the racial significance of
the thing and decided not to encourage imitation.
Chapter Xll
December 4, 1991. I went over to Georgetown today to talk to Elsa, the little redheaded "dropout"
I met there a couple of weeks ago.
The reason for my visit was to try to make a better evaluation of the potential of
some of Elsa's friends for playing a role in our fight
against the System.
Actually, some of them-or, at least, people in similar circumstances-already are involved in their own war against the System.
In the
last month there's been a bewildering proliferation of incidents in which the Organization has not been involved.
These have included
bombings, arson, kidnapping, violent public demonstrations, sabotage, death threats against prominent
figures, even two widely
publicized assassinations. Credit for the various incidents has been claimed by so many different
groups-anarchists, tax rebels,
"liberation fronts" of one stripe or another, half-a-dozen far-out religious
cults-that no one can keep up with it all. Every nut with an ax
to grind seems to have gotten into the act.
Most of these people are such careless amateurs that even our racially integrated FBI
has been doing a fairly creditable job of
rounding them up, but more seem to keep cropping up. The general atmosphere
of revolutionary violence and governmental counter-
violence that the Organization's activities have brought on is apparently
responsible for encouraging most of them.
The most interesting aspect
of all this is the proof it represents that the System's grip on the minds of the citizenry is less than total.
Most
Americans, of course, are still marching in mental lockstep with the high priests of the TV religion, but a growing minority
have
broken step and regard the System as an enemy. Unfortunately, their hostility is usually based on the wrong reasons,
and it would be
nearly impossible to coordinate their activities.
In fact, in the great majority of cases there is no reasoned basis at all for their activity. It is really just a massive
venting of frustrations
in the form of vandalism rather than political terrorism. They just want to smash something,
to inflict some injury on the people they
see as responsible for the unlivable world they are forced to live in. Vandalism
on the massive scale we are seeing now is something
with which the political police simply cannot continue to cope for
very long. It is running them ragged.
Besides the political vandals and
the loonies, two other segments of the population have been playing an important role in recent
events: the Black separatists
and the organized criminals. Until a few weeks ago everyone assumed that the System had finally
bought off the last of
the nationalist-minded Blacks back in the '70's. Apparently they've just been lying low and minding their own
business,
and now they see a chance to get a few licks in. Mostly they seem to have been blowing up the offices of Tom groups and
shooting each other, but they organized a pretty good riot in New Orleans last week, in which there was a lot of window-breaking
and
looting. More power to them!
The Mafia, two or three of the
big labor unions they own, and a couple of other organized-crime groups have been capitalizing on the
disorder and the
public apprehension by substantially stepping up their extortion activities. When they tell a businessman or a
merchant
that they'll bomb his place of business unless he coughs up a "protection" payment, they are more likely to be believed
than
they were a few months ago. And kidnapping has become a big business. The cops are too busy working on things the
System is
really worried about (namely, us) to bother the professional thugs, and they are having a field day.
Taking a strictly cold-blooded view, we must welcome even this upsurge in crime, since
it helps to undermine the confidence of the
public in the System. But the day must also come when we will take every
one of these elements which the System's "bought" judges
have coddled for so long and put them up against the
wall without further ado-along with the judges.
I knocked at the address
Elsa gave me-it is the basement entrance of what was once an elegant townhouse-and when I asked for
Elsa I was invited
in by an obviously pregnant young woman with a bawling infant in her arms. When my eyes adjusted to the dim
light, I
saw that the whole basement is being used as a communal living area. Blankets and sheets tied to the pipes which run along
the low ceiling serve to crudely partition off half-a-dozen corners and niches as semi-private sleeping areas. In addition,
there are
several mattresses on the floor in the main portion of the basement. Other than a card table next to the laundry
sink, where two
young women were washing some cooking utensils, there is no furniture, not even a chair.
Against one wall there is an ancient, wood-burning stove, which gives off the only heat
in the basement. As I learned later, running
water is the only public utility which the little commune has at its disposal,
and they obtain fuel for their stove by scavenging in the
neighborhood or by sending a raiding party upstairs to break
up doors, banisters, window jambs, even floorboards. Another, larger
commune occupies the upper portion of the house,
beyond the heavily barricaded steel door at the head of the basement stairs, but
they
often indulge in wild drug parties, after which they are in no condition to repel fuel-raiders from downstairs.
The basement dwellers shun hard drugs and regard themselves as quite superior to the upstairs
people. They nevertheless prefer
the grubby basement for themselves, because it is easier to heat and easier to defend
than upstairs, the only windows being a few
tiny, dirt-streaked panes near the ceiling, far too small to admit any hostile
intruder. In addition, it is cooler in the summer.
Seven or eight of
them were sprawled on mattresses, watching some inane "game" program on a battery-powered television receiver
and smoking marijuana cigarettes, when I entered. The whole place was permeated by the stink of stale beer, unwashed laundry,
and marijuana smoke. (They don't regard marijuana as a drug.) Two small boys, about four years old, both stark naked, were
rolling
on the floor and fighting near the stove. A gray cat, perched comfortably on one of the idle heating pipes near
the ceiling, stared down
at me curiously.
The people on the mattresses,
though, after a brief glance, paid no further attention to me. I could see that none of the faces
illuminated by the
TV screen was Elsa's. When the girl who had admitted me called out her name, however, one of the blanket-
partitions
in a far corner was suddenly thrust aside, and Elsa's head and bare shoulders became momentarily visible. She squealed
with delight when she saw me, ducked back behind her blanket, and emerged a moment later in her "granny" dress.
I was vaguely
disturbed to catch a glimpse of another form on the mattress in the dim recess as Elsa parted the blanket
and came out. A twinge of
jealousy?
Elsa gave me a quick hug of
genuine affection and then offered me a cup of steaming coffee, which she poured from a battered pot
on the stove. I
gratefully accepted the coffee, for the walk from the bus stop had thoroughly chilled me. We sat on an unoccupied
mattress
near the stove. The sound from the TV and the noise being made by the crying baby and the two scuffling boys allowed us
to talk in relative privacy.
We talked of many things, for I didn't
want to blurt out immediately the true reason for my visit. I learned a lot about Elsa and the
people she is living with.
Some of the things I learned saddened me, and some profoundly shocked me.
I was saddened by Elsa's story of herself.
She is the only child of upper-middle-class parents. Her father is (or was-she hasn't been in
touch with her family for
more than a year) a speech writer for one of the most powerful Senators in Washington. Her mother is an
attorney for
a left-wing foundation whose principal activity is buying up houses in White, suburban neighborhoods and moving Black
welfare
families into them.
Until she was 15 Elsa had been very happy. Her family had lived in Connecticut until then, and Elsa
had attended an exclusive,
private school for girls. (Single-sex schools are illegal now, of course.) She spent the summers
with her parents at their vacation
home on the beach. Elsa's face glowed as she described the woods and trails around
their summer home and the long walks she
took by herself. She had her own little sailboat and often sailed to a tiny
island offshore for private picnics and long, happy hours of
lying in the sun and daydreaming.
Then the family moved to Washington, and her mother insisted that they take an apartment in a predominantly
Black neighborhood
near Capitol Hill, rather than living in a White suburb. Elsa was one of only four White students
at the junior high-school to which they
sent her.
Elsa had developed
early. Her natural warmth and open, uninhibited nature combined with her outstanding physical charms to
produce a girl
who had been extraordinarily attractive sexually even at 15. The result was that the Black males, who also continually
badgered the one other White girl at the school, gave Elsa no peace. The Black girls, seeing this, hated Elsa with special
passion and
tormented her in every way they could.
Elsa dared not
go into the restroom or even let herself out of the sight of a teacher for a moment while she was at school. She soon
found
that the teachers offered no real protection, when a Black assistant principal cornered her in his office one day and tried
to put
his hand inside her dress.
Each day Elsa came home from school
in tears and begged her parents to send her to another school. Her mother's response was to
scream at her, slap her face,
and call her a "racist." If the Black boys were bothering her, it was her fault, not theirs. And she should
try
harder to make friends with the Black girls.
Nor did her father offer
her any comfort, even when she told him about the incident with the assistant principal. The whole issue
embarrassed
him, and he didn't want to hear about it. His liberalism was more passive than her mother's, but he was usually
intimidated
by his thoroughly "liberated" wife into going along on any matters that touched on race. Even when three young,
Black
thugs accosted him on his very doorstep, took his wallet and wristwatch, and then knocked him down and stomped
on his
eyeglasses, Elsa's mother wouldn't let him call the police and report the robbery. She regarded the very thought
of filing a police
complaint against Blacks as somewhat "fascist."
Elsa stood it for three months, and then she ran away from home. She was taken in by the little commune she is with now,
and,
having a basically cheerful disposition, she learned to be tolerably happy in her new situation.
Then, about a month ago, the trouble arose which led to my meeting
her. A new girl, Mary Jane, had joined their group, and there
was friction between Elsa and Mary Jane. The boy Elsa was
sharing her mattress with at the time had apparently known Mary Jane
earlier, before either had joined the group, and
Mary Jane regarded Elsa as a usurper. Elsa in turn resented Mary Jane's none-too-
subtle efforts to entice her boyfriend
away. The result was a screaming, clawing, hairpulling fight between the two one day which
Mary Jane, being the stronger,
had won.
Elsa had wandered the streets for two days-that's when I met
her-and then she had returned to the basement commune. Mary Jane,
meanwhile, had gotten on the wrong side of another
of the girls in the group, and Elsa pressed this advantage by issuing an
ultimatum: either Mary Jane must go or she,
Elsa, would leave permanently. Mary Jane had responded by threatening Elsa with a
knife.
"So, what happened?" I asked.
"We sold
her," was Elsa's simple reply.
"You sold her? What do you mean?"
I exclaimed.
Elsa explained: "Mary Jane refused to leave after everyone
sided with me, so we sold her to Kappy the Kike. He gave us the TV and
two hundred dollars for her."
"Kappy the Kike," it turned out, is a Jew named Kaplan who makes his living
in the White slave trade. He makes regular trips to
Washington from New York for the purpose of buying runaway girls.
His usual suppliers are the "wolf packs," from one of which I had
rescued Elsa. These predatory groups snatch
girls off the street, keep them for a week or so, and then, if their disappearance has
caused no comment in the newspapers,
sell them to Kaplan.
What happens to the girls after that no one can
say with certainty, but it is thought that most are confined in certain exclusive clubs in
New York where the wealthy
go to satisfy strange and perverted appetites. Some, it is rumored, are eventually sold to a Satanist club
and painfully
dismembered in gruesome rituals. Anyway, someone in the commune had heard that Kaplan was in town and "buying,"
so when Mary Jane wouldn't leave they tied her up, located Kaplan, and made the sale.
I had thought I was unshockable, but I was horrified by Elsa's story of Mary Jane's fate. "How,"
I asked in a tone of outrage, "could
you sell a White girl to a Jew?" Elsa was embarrassed by my obvious displeasure.
She admitted that it was a terrible thing to have
done and that she sometimes feels guilty when she thinks about Mary
Jane, but it had seemed like a convenient solution to the
commune's problem at the time. She offered the feeble excuse
that it happens all the time, that the authorities apparently know all
about it and don't interfere, and so it is really
more society's fault than anyone's.
I shook my head in disgust, but this
turn of our conversation gave me a convenient opening to the topic in which I was mainly
interested. "A civilization
which tolerates the existence of Kaplan and his filthy business should be burned to the ground," I said. "We
should make a bonfire of the whole thing and then start over fresh."
I had unconsciously raised my voice loud enough for my last comment to be heard by everyone in the basement. A shaggy individual
got up from his mattress in front of the TV and sauntered over. "What can anyone do?" he asked, not really expecting
an answer.
"Kappy the Kike's been arrested at least a dozen times,
but the cops always turn him loose. He's got political connections. Some of
the big Jews in New York are his customers.
And I've heard that two or three Congressmen go up there regularly to visit some of the
clubs he supplies."
"Then someone should blow up the Congress," I answered.
"I guess that's already been tried," he laughed, apparently referring to the Organization's mortar
attack.
"Well, if I had a bomb now I'd try it myself," I said. "Where can I get some dynamite?"
The fellow shrugged his shoulders and wandered back to the TV set. I then tried pumping
Elsa for information. Which groups in
Georgetown have been doing bombings? How can I get in touch with one of them?
Elsa tried to be helpful, but she just didn't know. It was a subject in which she had
no particular interest. Finally, she called out to the
man who had strolled over earlier: "Harry, aren't the people
over on 29th Street, the ones who call themselves 'Fourth World
Liberation Front,' into fighting the pigs?"
Harry was obviously not pleased by her question. He jumped to his feet, glared fiercely
at the two of us, and then stomped out of the
basement without answering, slamming the door behind him.
One of the women at the laundry sink turned around and reminded Elsa that it was her day
to prepare the midday meal and that she
hadn't even put the potatoes on the stove to boil yet. I squeezed Elsa's hand,
wished her well, and made my exit.
I guess
I botched things rather badly. It was incredibly naive of me to imagine that I could just walk into the "dropout"
community and
be politely directed to someone engaged in violent and illegal activity against the System. Obviously every
undercover cop in
Washington has been trying the same thing. Now the word must certainly be out everywhere that I'm a
cop too. That blows any
chance I may have had of making contact with anti-System militants in that particular milieu.
Of course, we could send someone else over to try to find the "Fourth World Liberation
Front," whatever the hell it is. But I wonder
now whether there's any point in that. My visit with Elsa has pretty
well convinced me that, in the people who share her life-style,
there's just not much potential for constructive collaboration
with the Organization. They lack self-discipline and any real sense of
purpose. They've given up. All they really want
to do is lie around all day screwing and smoking pot. I almost believe that if the
government would double their welfare
allowances, even the bomb throwers would lose their militancy
Elsa is
basically a good kid, and there must be a number of others whose instincts are mostly all right but who just couldn't cope
with
this nightmare world and so they dropped out. Although we both reject the world in its present condition and have
both dropped out,
in a sense, the difference between the people in the Organization and Elsa's friends is that we are
capable of coping and they aren't. I
cannot imagine myself or Henry or Katherine or anyone else in the Organization just
sitting around watching TV and letting the world
go by when so much needs to be done. It is a difference of human quality.
But there's more than one kind of quality that's important to us. Most Americans are still
coping, some barely and some quite
successfully. They haven't dropped out, because they lack a certain sensitivity-a
sensitivity which I believe we in the Organization
share with Elsa and the best of her friends-a sensitivity which allows
us to smell the stink of this decaying society and which makes
us gag. The copers out there, just like many of the non-copers,
either can't smell the stink or it doesn't bother them. The Jews could
lead them to any kind of pigsty at all, and as
long as there was plenty of swill they would adapt to it. Evolution has made skilled
survivors of them, but it has failed
them in another respect.
How fragile a thing is man's civilization! How
superficial it is to his basic nature! And upon how few of the teeming multitudes to whose
lives it gives a pattern does
it depend for its sustenance!
Without the presence of perhaps one or
two per cent of the most capable individuals-the most aggressive, intelligent, and
hardworking of our fellow citizens-I
am convinced that neither this civilization nor any civilization could long sustain itself. It would
gradually disintegrate,
over centuries, perhaps, and the people would not have the will or the energy or the genius to patch up the
cracks. Eventually,
all would return to their natural, pre-civilized state-a state not too different from that of Georgetown's dropouts.
But even energy and will and genius are not enough, clearly. America still has enough
over-achievers to keep the wheels turning. But
these over-achievers seem not to have noticed that the machine their exertions
keep running long ago ran off the road and is now
hurtling headlong into an abyss. They are insensitive to the ugliness
and unnaturalness, as well as to the ultimate danger, of the
direction they have taken.
It is really only a minority of a minority which led our race out of the jungle and along the first few steps
toward true civilization. We
owe everything to those few of our ancestors who had both the sensitivity to feel what needed
doing and the ability to do it. Without
the sensitivity no amount of ability can lead to truly great achievement, and
without the ability sensitivity leads only to daydreams and
frustration. The Organization has selected from the great
mass of humanity those of our present generation who posses this rare
combination. Now we must do whatever is necessary
to prevail.
Chapter XIII
March 21, 1993.
Today a new beginning. Quite a coincidence that it's the first day of spring. For me it is like a return from the dead-
470 days of living death. To be back with Katherine, back with my other comrades, able to resume the struggle again after
so much
wasted time-the thought of these things fills me with an indescribable joy.
So much has happened since my last entry in this diary (how glad I am that Katherine was able to save it for
me!) that it's difficult to
decide how to condense it all here. Well, first things first.
It was about four o'clock in the morning, pitch dark, a Sunday. We were all sound asleep. The first thing I
remember is Katherine
shaking me by the shoulder, trying to wake me up. I could hear an insistent buzzing in the background,
which, in my sleep-fogged
condition, I assumed was our bedroom alarm clock.
"Surely, it's not time to get up yet," I mumbled.
"It's
the warning buzzer downstairs," Katherine whispered urgently. "Somebody's outside the building."
That snapped me awake, but before I could even get my feet on the floor, there was a loud
crash, as something trailing a stream of
sparks came hurtling through the carefully boarded-up bedroom window. Almost
immediately the room was filled with a choking cloud
of gas, and I was gasping for breath in agony.
The next couple of minutes are a little hazy in my memory. Somehow we all got our gas
masks on without turning on any lights. Bill
and I raced downstairs, leaving Katherine and Carol to man the upstairs
windows. Fortunately, no one had yet tried to enter the
building, but as Bill and I reached the bottom of the stairs
we could hear someone outside with a bullhorn ordering us to come out
with our hands up.
I took a quick look through our peephole. The darkness outside had been turned bright as day by dozens of searchlights,
all trained
on our building. The glare kept me from seeing much of anything beyond the lights, but it was instantly clear
that there were several
hundred troops and policemen, with lots of equipment, out there.
It was obviously futile to attempt to shoot our way out, but we laid down a brief barrage anyway-half-a-dozen
quick shots each-from
the upstairs and downstairs windows, front and back, just to discourage the people outside from
attempting to force a quick entry into
the building. After that, we all stayed clear of the windows and doors, which
were immediately riddled with a withering return fire, and
concentrated on getting as much of our essential equipment
out through our escape tunnel as we could. The cement-block walls of
the garage offered protection from the small-arms
fire being sprayed at us from every direction.
Bill, Katherine, and Carol
relayed our gear down the long, dark tunnel, while I stayed in the shop and gathered together for them the
things I thought
we should try to save. In a frantic and exhausting three-quarters of an hour, they assembled a small mountain of
armaments
and communications equipment in the drainage ditch at the far end of the tunnel.
Although the three of them did most of the carrying, at least they were not in danger of being shot. I had bullets whistling
around my
ears the whole while, and I was stung at least a dozen times by splinters of concrete chipped from the walls
by ricochets. I still don't
understand how I avoided being killed. I even managed to fire a few rounds back through the
door at our attackers every five minutes
or so, just to keep them under cover.
Finally we had gotten out all our small arms and ammunition, about half our bulk explosives and heavier weapons,
and all the
completed communications units. Bill's tools were saved, because he has the tidy habit of keeping them all
together in a tool box, but
we abandoned most of my test equipment, because it was scattered all over the shop.
We huddled briefly in the grease pit and decided that Bill and the girls would steal a
vehicle and load our things into it while I stayed in
the shop and prepared a demolition charge that would cover the
entrance of our escape tunnel. I would give them 30 minutes, then I
would light the fuse and make my own exit.
Katherine broke away and ran quickly back upstairs, where she grabbed some of our personal
items-including my diary- and then I
shooed her back into the tunnel with the
others for the last time.
The downstairs doors and the boards over the
windows were about half shot away by this time, and so much light was coming into
the shop from the searchlights that
any movement was becoming extremely hazardous. Working with nervous haste, I assembled a
20-pound charge of tritonal
in the grease pit, just above the tunnel entrance, and primed it.
Then
I crawled along the floor, heading for the wall where approximately another 100 pounds of tritonal was stacked in small
containers. I intended to run a length of primacord from that batch to the charge in the grease pit, so that the whole shop
would go up
in one blast, thoroughly covering everything in rubble. It would take the cops a couple of days to sift through
the debris and discover
that we had escaped.
But I never made it
to the wall. Somehow-I still don't understand exactly what happened-the charge in the grease pit exploded
prematurely.
Perhaps a ricocheting bullet hit the primer. Or perhaps sparks from one of the tear gas grenades which were still being
lobbed into the place ignited the fuse. In any event, the concussion knocked me cold-and very nearly killed me. I regained
consciousness on an operating table in a hospital emergency room.
The
next few days were extraordinarily painful ones. I wince at the memory. I was taken directly from the emergency room to an
interrogation cell in the sub-basement of the FBI building, which was still only partially cleared of the rubble from our
bombing seven
weeks earlier.
Although I was still disoriented and
in extreme pain from my wounds, I was handled very roughly. My wrists were tightly handcuffed
behind me, and I was kicked
and punched whenever I stumbled or failed to respond fast enough to an order. Forced to stand in the
center of the cell
while half-adozen FBI agents shouted questions at me from all sides, I could hardly do more than mumble
incoherently,
even if I had wanted to cooperate with them.
Even in my agony, however,
I felt a surge of elation when I realized from my interrogators' questions that the others must have gotten
away safely.
Over and over again the men around me screamed out the same questions: "Where are the others? How many were in
the
building with you? How did they get out?" Apparently, the charge in the grease pit had successfully obliterated the tunnel
entrance. The questions were punctuated with repeated slaps and kicks, until I finally sagged to the floor, mercifully unconscious
again.
When I came to, I was still lying where I had fallen, on the
bare, concrete floor. The light was on, no one else was in the room, and I
could hear the chattering of pneumatic hammers
and other sounds being made by repairmen working in the corridor beyond my cell
door. I ached all over, with the handcuffs
causing me particular agony, but my head was nearly clear.
My first thought
was one of regret that I no longer had my poison capsule. The secret police, of course, had taken my little necklace
away
as soon as they had found my unconscious body in the wreckage of the garage. I cursed myself for having failed to take the
precaution of carrying the capsule in my mouth before the explosion. Probably it wouldn't have been found there, and I could
have
bitten it as soon as I woke up in the hospital. In the days to come, this regret was to recur again and again.
My second thought was also one of regret and selfrecrimination. I was tormented by a suspicion
so strong that it nearly amounted to
certainty that my ill-advised visit to Elsa two days earlier was responsible for
my predicament. Evidently, someone from Elsa's group
had followed me home and then had informed on me. This suspicion
was later confirmed indirectly by my captors.
I was alone with my aches
and somber thoughts for only a few minutes before my second interrogation session began. This time two
FBI agents came
into my cell, followed by a physician and three other men, two of the last three being large, muscular-looking
Negroes.
The third man was a stooped, white-haired figure of about 70. A nasty little smile flickered around the corners of his coarse-
looking mouth, which occasionally split into a leering grin, revealing the gold caps on his tobacco-stained teeth.
After the physician had quickly checked me over, pronounced me reasonably fit, and left,
the two FBI agents jerked me to my feet
and then took up positions near the door. The session was turned over to the
sinister-looking fellow with the gold teeth.
Speaking with a thick Hebrew accent and a disarmingly mild, professorial
manner, he introduced himself to me as Colonel Saul
Rubin, of Israeli Military Intelligence. Before I could even wonder
what business a representative of a foreign government had
questioning me, Rubin explained:
"Since your racist activities are in violation of the International Genocide Convention, Mr. Turner, you
will be tried by an international
tribunal, with representatives from both your country and mine. But first we need some
information from you, so that we can also
bring your fellow criminals to justice at the same time.
"I understand that you were not very cooperative last night. Let me warn you that it will go very hard
for you if you fail to answer my
questions. I have had a great deal of experience over the last 45 years in extracting
information from people who did not wish to
cooperate with me. In the end they all told me everything I wanted to know,
both the Arabs and the Germans, but it was a very
unpleasant experience for those who were stubborn."Then, after
a brief pause:
"Ah yes, some of those
Germans, back in 1945 and 1946-particularly the ones from the SS- were quite
stubborn."
The apparently satisfying recollection brought another hideous grin to Rubin's face, and I could not suppress
a shudder. I
remembered the horrible photographs one of our members who was a former Army intelligence officer had shown
me years ago of
German prisoners who had had their eyes gouged out, their teeth pulled, their fingers cut off, and their
testicles smashed by sadistic
interrogators, many wearing U.S. Army uniforms, prior to their conviction and execution
by military courts as "war criminals. "
I wanted nothing so
much as to be able to smash the leering Jewish face before me with my fists, but my handcuffs would not permit
me that
luxury. I settled for spitting into Rubin's face and simultaneously aiming a kick at his crotch. Unfortunately, my stiff,
aching
muscles ruined my aim, and my kick only caught Rubin's thigh, sending him staggering back a couple of paces.
Then the two Negro orderlies seized me. Under Rubin's instructions, they proceeded to
give me a vicious, thorough, and scientific
beating. When they finished my whole body was a throbbing, searing mass of
pain, and I was writhing on the floor, whimpering.
The subsequent interrogation sessions were worse-much worse. Because
a public "show trial" was planned for me, presumably in
the Adolf Eichmann manner, Rubin avoided the eye-gouging
and finger-cutting, which would have disfigured me, but the things he did
were fully as painful. (Note to the reader:
Adolf Eichmann was a middle-level German official during World War II. Fifteen years after
the war, in 39 BNE, he was
kidnapped in South America by Jews, flown to Israel, and made the central figure in an elaborately
staged, two-year propaganda
campaign to evoke sympathy from the non-Jewish world for Israel, the only haven for "persecuted"
Jews. After
fiendish torture, Eichmann was displayed in a soundproof glass cage during a four-month show trial in which he was
condemned
to death for "crimes against the Jewish people.")
For days
at a time I was completely out of my mind, and, as Rubin had predicted, I eventually told him everything he wanted to know.
No human being could have done otherwise.
During the torture sessions
the two FBI agents who were always present as spectators sometimes turned a bit pale-and when Rubin
had his two Black
assistants thrust a long, blunt rod up into my rectum, so that I was screaming and wriggling like a skewered pig,
one
looked as if he were going to be sick-but they never raised an objection. I guess it was much the same after World War II,
when
American officers of German descent calmly watched Jewish torturers work over their racial brothers who had been
in the German
army and likewise saw nothing amiss when Negro G.I.'s raped and brutalized German girls. Is it that they
have been so brainwashed
by the Jews that they hate their own race, or is it that they are just insensitive bastards
who will do whatever they're told as long as
they keep drawing their salaries?
Despite Rubin's exquisitely painful expertise, I am now thoroughly convinced that the Organization's interrogation
techniques are
much more effective than the System's. We are scientific, whereas the System is merely brutal. Although
Rubin broke my resistance
and got answers to his questions, fortunately he failed to ask many of the right questions.
When he had finally finished with me, after nearly a month-long nightmare, I had told
him the names of most of the members of the
Organization that I knew, the locations of their hideouts, and who had been
involved in various operations against the System. I had
described in detail the preparation for the bombing of the FBI
building and my role in the mortar assault on the Capitol. And, of
course, I explained exactly how the other members
of my unit had escaped capture.
All these disclosures certainly caused
problems for the Organization. But since they were able to anticipate exactly what the political
police would learn from
me, they were able to nullify any potential damage. Mainly it meant hastily abandoning several perfectly good
hideouts
and establishing new ones.
But Rubin's interrogation technique elicited
only information in the form of answers to direct questions. He asked me nothing about
our communications system, and
so he found out nothing about it. (As I learned later, our legals inside the FBI kept the Organization
informed as to
just what information my interrogation was yielding, so we retained confidence in the security of our radio
communications.)
He also found out nothing about the Order or about our philosophy or long-range goals,
which knowledge might have helped the
System understand our strategy. As it was, everything Rubin got from me was of
a tactical nature only. I believe the reason for this to
be the System's arrogant assumption that the task of liquidating
the Organization would be a matter of only weeks. We were regarded
as a major problem but not as a mortal danger.
After my period of interrogation was over, I was kept in the FBI building for another
three weeks, apparently in anticipation of having
me handy to identify various Organization members who might be arrested
on the basis of the information I had furnished. None were
arrested during this time, however, and I was eventually transferred
to the special prison compound at Fort Belvoir where nearly 200
other Organization members and about the same number
of our legals were being held.
The government was afraid to put us into
ordinary prisons because of the danger that the Organization might free us-and also, I
suspect, because they were afraid
we might indoctrinate other White prisoners. So all captured Organization members were taken to
Fort Belvoir from all
over the country and kept in solitary-confinement cells in buildings surrounded by barbed wire, tanks, guard
towers with
machine guns, and two companies of MP's-all in the center of an Army base. And there I spent the next 14 months. What
happened to the plans for my trial I cannot say.
Many people consider solitary confinement to be especially harsh treatment, but it was a blessing for me. I was still in
such a
depressed and abnormal frame of mind-partly the result of Rubin's torture, partly from a sense of guilt at having
yielded to that torture,
and partly just from being locked up and unable to participate in the struggle-that I needed
some time alone to straighten myself out
again. And, of course, it was nice not to have to worry about Blacks, which
would have been a real curse in any ordinary prison.
No one who has not
been subjected to the terror and agony to which I was can understand the profound and lasting effect of such an
experience.
My body has healed completely now, and I have recovered from the peculiar combination of depression and nervous
jitters
with which my interrogation left me, but I am not the same man I was. I am more impatient now, more serious-minded (even
somber, perhaps), more determined than ever to get on with our task.
And I have lost all fear of death. I have not become more reckless-less so, if anything-but nothing holds any terror for
me now. I can
be much harder on myself than before and also harder on others, when necessary. Woe betide any whining
conservative,
"responsible" or otherwise, who gets in the way of our revolution when I am around! I will listen
to no more excuses from these self-
serving collaborators but will simply reach for my pistol.
All the time I and-the others were at Fort Belvoir we were supposed to be incommunicado and were allowed no
reading material,
newspapers or otherwise. Nevertheless, we soon learned how to communicate to a limited extent with
one another, and we
established an oral news pipeline from the outside through our guards, who were not an altogether
unsympathetic lot.
The news we all wanted to hear, of course, was of
the war between the Organization and the System. We were especially cheered
up whenever there was news of a successful
action against the System-an "atrocity," in the jargon of the news media- and we
became depressed if the period
between news of major actions stretched to more than a few days.
As time
passed, news of actions did become considerably less frequent, and the media began predicting with greater and greater
confidence the imminent liquidation of the remnants of the Organization and the return of the country to "normalcy.
" That worried us,
but our worry was tempered by the observation that fewer and fewer new prisoners were joining
us at Fort Belvoir. An average of one
a day was being brought in when I first went there, but that number had declined
to less than one a week by August of last year.
Then came the great Houston
bombings of September 11 and 12, 1992. In two earthshaking days there were 14 major bombings,
which left more than 4,000
persons dead and much of Houston's industrial and shipping facilities smoldering wreckage.
The action began when a fully loaded munitions ship, carrying aerial bombs to Israel, detonated in the crowded
Houston ship channel
in the pre-dawn hours of September 11. That ship took four others to the bottom of the channel with
her, thoroughly blocking it, and
also set fire to an enormous refinery nearby. Within an hour eight other massive explosions
had occurred along the ship channel,
putting the nation's second-busiest port out of business for more than four months.
Five later explosions closed the Houston airport, destroyed the city's main power-generating
station, and collapsed two strategically
located overpasses and a bridge, making two of the most heavily traveled freeways
in the area impassable. Houston became an
instant disaster area, and the Federal government rushed in thousands of troops-as
much to keep an angry and panic-stricken public
under control as to counter the Organization.
The Houston action won us no friends, but neither did it help the government's case. And it thoroughly dispelled
the growing notion
that our revolution had been stifled.
And, after
Houston, there was Wilmington, then Providence, then Racine. Actions were fewer than before, but they were much, much
bigger.
It became apparent to us last fall that the revolution had entered a new and more decisive phase. But more of that later.
Last night was the most important action of all for those of us at Fort Belvoir. Just before midnight, as usual, two olive-drab
buses
pulled up in front of the gate to our prison compound. Ordinarily they bring in about 60 MP's for the midnight
guard shift and take
away the evening shift. This time it was different.
My first inkling that a breakout was in progress came when I was wakened by the sound of a machine gun being fired from
one of the
guard towers. It was quickly silenced by a direct hit from the 105-mm gun on one of the four tanks in our
compound. After that there
was intermittent small-arms fire and a lot of shouting and the sound of running feet. Finally,
the wooden door of my cell burst inward
under the blow of a sledgehammer, and I was free.
I was one of the lucky 150 or so who squeezed into the two MP buses and rode out in them. Several dozen others
clung to the
outside of the four captured tanks, whose inattentive crews had been the first targets of our rescuers.
The rest had to go on foot,
slogging through a downpour which providentially kept the Army's helicopters grounded.
Altogether we lost 18 prisoners and four rescuers killed and 61 prisoners recaptured.
But 442 of us-according to the news report on
the radio-made it to the waiting trucks outside the base, while the tanks
kept our pursuers at bay.
That wasn't the end
of the excitement, but let it suffice to say that by four o'clock this morning we had successfully dispersed to 0
more
than two dozen pre-selected "safe houses" in the Washington area. After a few hours rest, I slipped into a set of
civilian work
clothes, took the set of false identification cards that had been carefully and masterfully prepared for
me, and, carrying a newspaper
and a lunch pail, made my way among the morning job-goers to the rendezvous point I was
assigned.
Within two minutes a pickup truck carrying a man and a woman
pulled up to the curb beside me. The door opened and I squeezed in.
As Bill drove off into the rush-hour traffic, I held
my beloved Katherine in my arms once again.
Chapter XIV
March 24, 1993. Today I was tried on the charge of Oath breaking-the most serious offense
with which a member of the Order can be
charged. It was a harrowing experience, but I knew it was coming, and I am enormously
relieved to have it behind me, despite the
outcome.
All during the
months in my prison cell, I agonized over the question: Did I, by failing to kill myself before I was captured, break my
Oath to the Order? I must have reviewed in my mind a hundred times the circumstances of my capture and the subsequent events,
trying to convince myself that my behavior had been blameless, that I had fallen alive into the hands of my captors through
no fault of
my own. Today I related the whole sequence of events to a jury of my peers.
The summons came this morning, via radio, and I knew immediately what it was for, although I was surprised
at the address to which
I was ordered to report: one of the newest and largest office buildings in downtown Washington.
As an attractive receptionist ushered
me into a conference room in a large suite of law offices, my apprehension was
mixed with gratitude for the three-day period of
recuperation I had been allowed since the breakout.
I had just slipped into the robe which I found waiting for me on a coat-rack, when another
door opened and eight other robed and
hooded figures walked into the room and silently took seats around a large table.
The last of the eight had his hood pushed back, and
I recognized the familiar features of Major Williams.
The proceedings were brisk and bathed in an air of formality. After a little more than
an hour of questioning, I was told to wait in a
smaller, adjoining room. I waited there for nearly three hours.
When the others had finally finished discussing my case and had reached a decision, I
was summoned back into the conference
room. While I stood at one end of the table, Major Williams, seated at the other
end, announced the verdict. His words, to the extent I
can remember them, were as follows:
"Earl Turner, we have weighed your performance as a member of this Order on two grounds, and we have found
you wanting on
both.
"First, in your conduct immediately prior
to the police raid in which you were seized and imprisoned, you gave evidence of a shocking
lack of maturity and sound
judgment. Your indiscretion in visiting the girl in Georgetown-an act which, although not specifically
forbidden, was
not within the realm of your assigned duties-led directly to a situation in which you and the members of your unit were
placed in extreme jeopardy, and a valuable facility was lost to the Organization.
"Because of this failure of judgment on your part, your period as a probationary member of the Order is
being extended for six
months. Furthermore, your time as a prisoner will not count as a part of your probation. Therefore,
you will not be permitted the rite of
Union before March of next year, at the earliest.
"We find, however, that your conduct prior to the police raid does not constitute a violation of your
Oath."
I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief upon hearing this
last statement. But then Williams continued, with a grimmer note in his voice:
"The fact that you were taken alive
by the political police and remained alive during nearly a month of interrogation is a far more
serious matter.
"In swearing your Oath, you consecrated your life to the service of the Order. You
undertook to place your duty to the Order ahead of
all other things, including the preservation of your life, at all
times. You accepted this obligation willingly and with the knowledge that,
for the duration of our struggle, it entails
a very substantial possibility of your actually having to give up your life in order to avoid
breaking your Oath.
"And you were specifically warned against falling alive into the hands of the political
police and were given the means to avoid this.
Yet you did fall into their hands and remained alive. The information
they extracted from you seriously hampered the work of the
Organization in this area and placed many of your comrades
in very grave danger.
"We understand,
of course, that you did not make a conscious decision to violate your Oath. We have carefully looked into the
circumstances
of your capture, and we are aware of the interrogation techniques the political police now use against our people. If
you
were merely a soldier in any other army in the world, you would be held blameless.
"But the Order is not like any other army. We have claimed for ourselves the right to decide the fate of all our people
and, eventually,
to rule the world in accord with our principles. If we are to be worthy of this right, then we must
be willing to accept the responsibility
which goes with it.
"Each
day we make decisions and carry out actions which result in the deaths of White persons, many of them innocent of any
offense
which we consider punishable. We are willing to take the lives of these innocent persons, because a much greater harm will
ultimately befall our people if we fail to act now. Our criterion is the ultimate good of our race. We can apply no lesser
criterion to
ourselves.
"Indeed, we must be much sterner with
ourselves than with others. We must maintain for ourselves a standard of conduct much
higher than we demand of the general
public or even of ordinary members of the Organization. In particular, we must never accept
the idea, born of the sickness
of our era, that a good excuse for nonperformance of a duty is a satisfactory substitute for performance.
"For us, there can be no excuses. Either we perform our duty, or we do not. If we
do not, we need no excuse; we simply accept the
responsibility for failure. And if there is a penalty, we accept that
too. The penalty for Oath-breaking is death."
The room was perfectly
still, but I could hear a buzzing in my ears, and the floor seemed to sway under my feet. I stood in stunned
silence
until Williams began speaking again, this time in a somewhat softer voice:
"The duty of this tribunal is clear, Earl Turner. We must act in your case in such a way that every member of this
Order who may, at
some time in the future, find himself in circumstances similar to yours during the police raid on your
headquarters, will know that
death is inevitable if he cannot avoid capture-either an honorable death by his own hand
or a less-than-honorable death at the hands
of his comrades later. There must be no temptation for him to avoid his duty,
in the hope that a 'good excuse' later will preserve his
life.
"Some
of us here today have argued that this consideration- setting a firm example for others - should be the sole determinant of
your
fate. But others of us have argued that, because you had not yet achieved full membership in this Order at the time
in question-
because you had not yet participated in the rite of Union-your conduct can be reasonably judged by a different
standard than would
be applied to someone who had completed his probationary period and achieved Union.
"Our decision has not been easy, but now you must hear it and you must abide by it.
First, you must satisfactorily complete your
extended period of probation. Then, at some time after the end of that period,
you will be permitted Union-but only on a conditional
basis, something we have never allowed before. The condition will
be that you undertake a mission whose successful completion can
reasonably be expected to result in your death.
"Unfortunately, we are all too often presented with the painful task of assigning
such 'suicide missions' to our members, when we can
find no other way to achieve a necessary goal. In your case, such
a mission will serve two ends.
"If you complete it successfully, the act of completion will remove the condition
from your Union. Then, even though you die, you will
continue to live in us and in our successors for as long as our
Order endures, just as with any other member who achieves Union and
then loses his life. And if, by some chance, you
should survive your mission, you may then take your place in our ranks with no stain
on your record. Do you understand
everything I have said?"
I nodded, and answered: "Yes, I understand,
and I accept your judgment without reservation. It is just and proper. I have never
expected to survive the struggle
in which we are now engaged, and I am grateful that I will be allowed to make a further contribution
to it. I am also
grateful that the prospect of Union remains before me."
March 25.
Today Henry came over, and he, Bill, and I had a long talk. Henry is heading for the West Coast tomorrow, and he wanted
to help Bill fill me in on the developments of the past year before he leaves. Apparently he will be engaged in training
new recruits
and handling some of the Organization's other internal functions in the Los Angeles area, where we are especially
strong. When he
greeted me he showed me the Sign, and I knew that he had also become a member of the Order.
In essence, what I learned today is what I had already concluded in my prison cell: the
Organization has shifted the main thrust of its
attacks from tactical, personal targets to strategic, economic targets.
We are no longer trying to destroy the System directly, but are
now concentrating on undermining the general public's
support for the System.
I have felt for a long time that this change
is necessary. Apparently two things forced Revolutionary Command to the same
conclusion: the fact that we were not recruiting
enough new members to make up our losses in the war of attrition against the
System, and the fact that neither our blows
against the System nor the System's increasingly repressive responses to those blows
were having any really decisive
effect on the public's attitude toward the System.
The
first factor was mandatory. We simply could not keep up our level of activity against the System as our casualties steadily
mounted, even if we wanted to. Henry estimated that the total number of our front-line combat troops for the whole country-
those
ready and able to use knife, gun, or bomb against the System-had declined to a low point of about 400 persons last
summer. Our
front-line troops make up only about a fourth of the Organization's membership, and they have been suffering
a greatly
disproportionate casualty rate.
So, the Organization was
forced to de-escalate the level of the war temporarily, while we still preserved a strong enough nucleus for
another
approach. Our whole strategy against the System was failing.
It was failing
because the great bulk of White Americans were not responding to the situation in the way we had hoped they would.
That
is, we had counted on a positive, imitative response to our "propaganda of the deed," but it was not forthcoming.
We had hoped that when we set the example of resisting the System's tyranny, others would
resist too. We had hoped that by making
dramatic strikes against top System personalities and important System facilities,
we would inspire Americans everywhere to initiate
similar actions of their own. But, for the most part, the bastards
just sat on their asses.
Sure, a dozen or so synagogues were burned,
and there was an overall rise in the level of politically motivated violence, but it was
generally misdirected and ineffective.
Without organization such activities have little value, unless they are very widespread and can
be sustained over a long
period.
And the System's response to the Organization irritated many
people and caused a lot of grumbling, but it didn't even come close to
provoking a rebellion. Tyranny, we have discovered,
just isn't all that unpopular among the American people.
What is really
precious to the average American is not his freedom or his honor or the future of his race, but his pay check. He
complained
when the System began busing his kids to Black schools 20 years ago, but hewas allowed to keep his station wagon
and his fiberglass speedboat, so he didn't fight.
He complained when they took away his guns five years ago, but he still had his color TV and his backyard barbeque,
so he didn't
fight.
And he complains today when the Blacks rape
his women at will and the System makes him show an identity pass to buy groceries
or pick up his laundry, but he still
has a full belly most of the time, so he won't fight.
He hasn't an idea
in his head that wasn't put there by his TV set. He desperately wants to be "well adjusted" and to do and think
and
say exactly what he thinks is expected of him. He has become, in short, just what the System has been trying to make
of him these
past 50 years or so: a mass-man; a member of the great, brainwashed proletariat; a herd animal; a true democrat.
That, unfortunately, is our average White American. We can wish that it weren't so, but
it is. The plain, horrible truth is that we have
been trying to evoke a heroic spirit of idealism which just isn't there
any more. It has been washed right out of 99 per cent of our
people by the flood of Jewish-materialist propaganda in
which they have been submerged practically all their lives.
As for the
last one per cent, there are various reasons why they aren't doing us much good. Some, of course, are too ornery to work
within the confines of the Organization-or any organized group; they can only "do their own thing," as a number,
in fact, are. The
others may still have different ideas of their own, or they simply may not have been able to make contact
with us since we were
forced underground. Eventually we could recruit most of these, but we no longer have the time.
What the Organization began doing about six months ago is treating Americans realistically,
for the first time-namely, like a herd of
cattle. Since they are no longer capable of responding to an idealistic appeal,
we began appealing to things they can understand: fear
and hunger.
We will take the food off their tables and empty their refrigerators. We will rob the System of its principal hold over
them. And, when
they begin getting hungry, we will make them fear us more than they fear the System. We will treat them
exactly the way they
deserve to be treated.
I don't know why we
held back from this approach for so long. We have had the example of decades of guerrilla warfare in Africa,
Asia, and
Latin America to instruct us. In every case the guerrillas won by making the people fear them, not love them. By publicly
torturing to death village leaders who opposed them and by carrying out brutal massacres of entire village populations which
refused
to feed them, they inspired such terror in neighboring villages that everyone was afraid to refuse them what
they asked.
We Americans observed all this but failed to apply the lesson
to ourselves. We regarded-correctly-all those non-Whites as mere
herds of animals and were not surprised that they behaved
as they did. But we regarded ourselves-incorrectly- as something better.
There was a time when we were better-and we are fighting to insure that there will be such a time again-but for now we are
l merely a
herd, being manipulated through our basest instincts by a pack of clever aliens. We have sunk to the point
where we no longer hate
our oppressors or try to fight them; we merely fear
l them and attempt to curry favor with them.
So be it. We will suffer
grievously for having allowed ourselves to fall under the Jewish spell.
We stopped wasting our resources in small-scale terror attacks and shifted to large-scale attacks on carefully selected
economic
targets: power stations, fuel depots, transportation facilities, food sources, key industrial plants. We do
not expect to bring down the
already creaky American economic structure immediately, but we do expect to cause a number
of localized and temporary
breakdowns, which will gradually have a cumulative effect on the whole public.
Already a sizable portion of the public has been made to realize that it will not be allowed
to sit back and watch the war on TV in
safety and comfort. In Houston, for example, hundreds of thousands went for nearly
two weeks without electricity last September.
The food in their refrigerators and freezers quickly spoiled, as did the
perishables in their supermarkets. There were two major food
riots by hungry Houstonians before the Army was able to
set up enough relief stations to handle everyone.
In one instance Federal
troops shot 26 persons in a mob trying to storm a government food depot, and then the Organization got
another riot started
with the rumor that the emergency rations the government was handing out were contaminated with botulism.
Houston isn't
back to normal yet, with most of the city still subject to a staggered six-hour-a-day power blackout.
In Wilmington we put half the city on the dole by blowing up two big DuPont plants. And we turned the lights
off for half of New
England when we knocked out that power-generating station just outside Providence.
The electronics manufacturer we hit in Racine wasn't very big, but he was the sole supplier
of certain key components for other
manufacturers all across the country. By torching his plant, we eventually caused
twenty others to shut down.
The effects of these actions are not decisive yet, but, if we can keep it up, they will be.
The public reaction has already convinced us
of that.
That reaction
can certainly not be considered friendly to us, on the whole. In Houston a mob took two prisoners-suspects arrested for
questioning in one of the bombings-away from the police and tore them limb from limb. Fortunately, they were not our people-
just
two hapless fellows who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And the conservatives, of course, have redoubled their squawking and cackling that we're ruining all chances for an improvement
in
conditions by "provoking" the government with our violence. What the conservatives mean when they talk of
an "improvement" is a
stabilization of the economy and another round of concessions to the Blacks, so that
everyone can return to consuming in multiracial
comfort.
But we
learned long ago not to count our enemies, only our friends. And the number of the latter is growing now. Henry indicated
that
we have increased nearly 50 per cent in membership since last summer. Apparently our new strategy has knocked a
lot of spectators
off the fence-some on our side and some on the other. Perceptive people are beginning to realize that
they won't be able to sit this
war out. We are forcing them into the front lines, where they must choose sides and participate,
whether they like it or not.
Chapter XV
March 28, 1993. I'm finally back in the swing of things now. Over the weekend Katherine
answered many questions for me and gave
me the details, especially about local developments, which I failed to get from
Henry Friday.
While I was locked up the work on our communications equipment
had to go on, of course, and now there are two other well-qualified
people in the area handling that task. But there's
still plenty of technical work left for me. Bill is a fine mechanical craftsman and
gunsmith, but he can't handle the
ordnance jobs that require chemical or electronic techniques. He gave me a long list of requests for
special devices
which came into our unit while I was in prison and which he had been obliged to put aside.
We went over the list carefully last night and decided which items are most important for the current needs
of the Organization. I then
made up my own list of supplies and equipment needed to begin work.
The top-priority items on Bill's list of requests are radio-controlled detonators and time-delay detonators
and igniters. The
Organization has been improvising in the latter category-and getting too high a percentage of misfires.
We want a time-delay device
which is adjustable from a few minutes to a day or more and which is 100 per cent certain.
Another category of items requested is disguised bombs and incendiary devices. It is now
just about impossible to get into any
government or media facility without walking through a metal-detector, and all
packages and mail are routinely scanned by x-ray. This
will require some cleverness, but I already have a few ideas.
And then there is Bill's own project, on which he needs some technical assistance: counterfeiting!
The Organization is already
successfully printing money on a fairly large scale on the West Coast, Bill said, and they
want him to begin doing the same thing
here.
I understand now why
the economic status of the Organization seems to have improved so much in the last year! Actually, since we
switched
to large-scale actions we've begun tapping some new sources of contributions-mostly fat cats buying "insurance,"
I suspect-
but we are apparently still finding it useful to print some of our own money.
Whatever genius is running our West Coast counterfeiting operation made up a very thorough set of instructions,
which Bill showed
me. The guy must have worked for the Secret Service or the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He really
seems to know his
business. (Note to the reader: The "Bureau of Engraving and Printing" was the government
agency which produced paper money in
the United States, and the "Secret Service" was a police agency which
combatted counterfeiting, among other things. As we know,
counterfeiting was later used by the Organization not only
to supply its units with funds but also to disrupt the general economy. In the
last days of the Great Revolution, the
Organization was dumping such huge quantities of counterfeit money that the government, in
desperation, outlawed all
paper money, requiring all monetary transactions to take place either in coin or by check. This move played
havoc with
public morale and was one of the factors leading to the final success of the Revolution.)
Bill has already finished setting up nearly everything; he has a really fine shop for precision printing. He
just needs help with the
fluorescence problem. The instructions tell him what chemical additives to put in his ink, but
not where to get them. And he is not sure
about how to make and use an ultraviolet inspection unit for checking the finished
product. That won't be hard.
Our new working and living arrangement is
radically different from the one we had before. Instead of sneaking around "underground,"
we are right out
in the open now. There's a neon sign in the window of the printing shop, and it's listed in the Yellow Pages. During
the
day the shop is "open for business," with Carol behind the counter, but Bill keeps his prices so high that just
enough work to
maintain appearances comes in. His real work takes place after hours, usually in the basement, where the
armory is.
The four of us live above the shop, like we did over the old
place, but we don't have to keep the windows blacked out. And Bill's
pickup truck stays parked right on the street in
front. So far as the world is concerned, we are just two young couples in the printing
business together.
The trick, of course, was in establishing false identities that would stand up to System
scrutiny, but the Organization has developed
an admirable degree of expertise along that line. We all have Social Security
cards, and two of us have driver's licenses. The cards
and licenses are genuine (I have heard some unpleasant stories
about how the Organization obtained them), so we can open bank
accounts, pay
taxes, and do other things like anyone else.
I just have to remember
that my new name is-ugh!- "David J. Bloom." I am really being ribbed about that. Fortunately, the photograph
on the driver's license is indistinct enough to pass for me, as long as I keep my hair dyed.
The Organization had no choice about establishing new identities for all of us who are underground. A person
without a documented
identity simply can't function in this society any longer. One can't buy groceries or even ride
a bus without showing either a driver's
license or one of the new identity cards the government has begun issuing.
It's still possible to get by with a fake in most cases, but the computerized system will
be completed in another few months, and then
fakes will automatically be detected. So the Organization decided to do
it right and give us "genuine" credentials, even though that's a
slow and difficult job. A few special units
handle that task with cold-blooded ruthlessness, but the demand for new credentials still far
exceeds the supply.
It also appears that the System has become even more ruthless in its campaign against
us. A number of our people-perhaps as
many as fifty for the whole country-have been murdered by professional killers
in the last four months. It's hard to fix the exact total,
because some we suspect have been killed have just disappeared,
and no body has been found.
When our people first began to disappear
or to be found floating in the river with their hands tied behind their backs and six or seven
bullet holes in their
heads, there was a widespread assumption among the Organization rank and file that these killings were internal
disciplinary
actions by the Organization itself. In fact, there was a period last fall when we were losing more members because of
disciplinary
executions than anything else. That was a time when morale was very low, and it was necessary to use extreme methods
to
convince waverers to remain steadfast in their obligations to the Organization.
But it was immediately apparent to Revolutionary Command - and it soon became apparent to everyone else-that a new element
had
entered the picture. From our contacts inside one of the Federal police agencies we learned that our people are being
killed by two
groups: a special Israeli assassination squad and an assortment of Mafia "hit men" under contract
to the government of Israel. Where
both these groups are concerned, U.S. police have been given a "hands off"
order by the FBI. (Note to the reader: The "Mafia" was a
criminal confederation, composed primarily of Italians
and Sicilians but usually masterminded by Jews, which flourished in the United
States in the eight decades prior to the
Great Revolution. There were several half-hearted governmental efforts to stamp out the
Mafia during this period, but
the unrestricted capitalism then flourishing provided ideal conditions for large-scale, organized crime and
its concomitant
political corruption. The Mafia remained in existence until virtually all its members-more than 8,000 men-were rounded
up and executed in a single, massive operation by the Organization during the mopping-up period which followed the Revolution.)
All the victims so far have been among our "legals." Apparently someone in the
FBI gives the names of persons suspected of being
members of the Organization but not yet under arrest to someone in
the Israeli embassy, and they take it from there.
We have made some reprisals-in
New Orleans, for example. After two of our "legals," one a prominent attorney there, were murdered
Mafia-style
about six weeks ago, we mined the nightclub which served as the local Mafia hangout. When the bombs went off and the
place
burst into flames during a birthday celebration for one of their "underbosses," the fleeing patrons were met with
merciless hails
of machine-gun fire from our people, who were stationed on rooftops across from the only two exits. More
than 400 persons lost their
lives there that night, including approximately 60 members of the Mafia.
But this new threat still remains very much with us, and it has severely damaged the morale
of those of our members and partisans
who are exposed to it-namely those who, by retaining their status as law-abiding
citizens and operating under their own identities, do
not enjoy the anonymity of us in the underground. It is clear that
we will soon have to move against the source of the threat.
April 2.
Supply problem solved-at least temporarily. It required another one of those stickup operations which I really detest. I wasn't
as nervous this time as when Henry and I pulled our first one-that seems half a lifetime ago-but I still didn't like it.
Bill and I broke our list of needed items up into three categories, according to their
source. About two-thirds of the chemical items we
needed were not readily available on the general-consumer market and
would have to come from a chemical supply house. Then, I
wanted at least 100 wristwatches for timing devices, and they
would cost us too much if we simply purchased them. Finally, there
were a number of electronic and electrical components,
some items of general hardware, and a few readily available chemicals, all of
which could be purchased without difficulty
and within the resources of our budget.
I spent most of Tuesday and Wednesday
gathering up the items in the last category.
The chemical problem was
also solved Wednesday. That had been a worry, because suppliers of laboratory and industrial chemicals
are now required
to check out all new customers with the political police, just as are suppliers of explosives. I'd just as soon avoid that
sort of scrutiny. But I checked with WFC and a found that one of our "legals" in Silver Spring has a small electroplating
shop and
could order what I need from his regular supplier. I'll pick the stuff up from him Monday.
But the watches! I knew exactly what I wanted for our timers, and I wanted enough of the
same style so that the timers could be
standardized, both for efficiency in building them and precisely known behavior
in operation. So Katherine and I robbed a warehouse
in northeast D.C. yesterday
and got 200 of them.
It took two days of telephoning just to find the
watches I was looking for. Then they had to be sent down to the Washington
warehouse from Philadelphia. I told the man
in Washington I was in a big hurry for them and would send someone out right away with
a certified check for $12,000
to pick them up. He said they would be waiting for me in the front office. And they were.
I wanted Bill to go with me, but he has been tied down with work at the shop all week. And Katherine really
wanted to go. The girl has
a wild streak in her that someone who doesn't know her well would never suspect.
First, one of Katherine's makeup jobs, to protect my "David Bloom" identity
and her own. Identity under identity under identity-I've
almost forgotten who Earl Turner is or what he actually looks
like!
Then we had to swipe a vehicle. That only took a few minutes, and
we followed the usual procedure: Park the pickup in a big
shopping center, walk to the other side of the parking lot,
find a car which is unlocked, and get in. I used a small bolt-cutter to cut the
armored cable to the ignition switch
under the dashboard, and then it was a matter of only a few seconds to find the right wires in the
cable and attach clip
leads.
I had hoped there would be no violence at the warehouse, but my
wish was not to be granted. We presented ourselves to the
manager and asked for our package. He asked for the certified
l check. "I have it," I said, "and I'll give it to you as soon as I check to
see that the watches are
the ones I ordered."
My plan was to take the watches and just walk
out the door, leaving the manager yelling for his check. But when the man came back
with our package, two husky warehouse
workers came with him, and one took up a position between us and the door. They were
taking no chances.
I opened the package, checked the contents, and drew my pistol. Katherine also drew her
gun, and she waved the man near the door
away. But then the door would not open when she tried it!
She turned her gun on the worker and he quickly explained: "They have to push the buzzer in the office
to unlock the door."
I whirled back toward the manager and snarled
at him, "Get this door open now, or I'll pay you for these watches with hot lead!" But
he nimbly ducked out
another doorway, from the office into the storage area, and slammed a heavy metal door behind him before I
could react.
I then ordered the female clerk at the desk to push the buzzer for the door. She, however,
continued to sit as rigidly as a statue, her
mouth wide open in an expression of horror.
Beginning to feel desperate, I decided to shoot the lock off the door. It took four shots to do it, partly
because my nervous haste
spoiled my aim.
We ran to the car, but the warehouse manager was already there. The bastard
was letting the air out of our tires!
I slammed the barrel of my revolver down on his head and sent him sprawling in
the gravel. Fortunately, he had only partially deflated
one tire, and the car could still be driven. Katherine and I
wasted no more time getting away from there.
What a life!
It wasn't until this afternoon, when I had finished assembling
and testing the first timer, that I was convinced that the fancy watches I
wanted were worth the hassle it took to get
them. The new timer works perfectly; it makes a positive, low-resistance contact every
time, and I am sure it will reduce
our percentage of misfires to practically zero.
I also got Bill's UV inspection unit working for him, and he will be
ready to print his first greenbacks as soon as I pick up his ink
additives Monday. His product won't be perfect, but
it should be close enough. In particular, it should pass all the standard tests used
in banks to spot counterfeit bills.
They'll have to take it to a lab to tell it's phony.
And I finished designing three different bomb mechanisms that should
pass an X-ray examination without arousing suspicion. One of
them fits into an umbrella handle-batteries, timer, and
all. The main shaft of the umbrella can be filled with thermite if one wants an
incendiary device, or the handle can
be detached and used as a detonator. Another timer-detonator combination will be built into a
pocket transistor radio
(that one can also be fired by a tone-coded radio signal), and the third will be an electric wristwatch, with the
detonator
and booster molded into the wrist band and fired by the watch's built-in battery. In each case, of course, the bulk explosives
must be brought into an area separately, but they can be disguised in many different ways-cast like plaster, for example,
into the
shape of any familiar object, even painted the right color.
Chapter XVI
April 10,
1993. This is the first time in a week I've had some time to myself and have been able to relax. I'm in a Chicago motel with
nothing to do until tomorrow morning, when I'll take a tour of the Evanston Power Project. I flew out here Friday afternoon
for two
things: the Evanston tour and a delivery of hot money to one of our Chicago units. Bill started his press up
Monday night, as soon as
we had mixed the chemical additives into the ink, and he kept it going almost continuously until
the wee hours of Friday morning, with
Carol spelling him twice for a few hours of sleep. He didn't shut down until he
had used the last of the banknote paper acquired for
the purpose. Katherine and I helped by doing the cutting and by
handling the paper at both ends of the press. The work nearly killed
all of us, but the Organization wanted the money
in a hurry.
They really have a pile of it now! I had never dreamed of
seeing so much money in my life. Bill printed just over ten million dollars in
$10 and $20 bills-more than a ton of crisp,
new banknotes. And they look good! I compared one of Bill's new tens with a genuine,
new one, and I couldn't tell which
was which, except by the serial numbers.
Bill really did a professional
job all around. Every bill even has a different serial number. This project just shows what can be
accomplished with
careful planning, dedication, and hard work. Of course, Bill had six months to set things up and practice with dry
runs,
before I was available to help him with the ink additives and the UV unit. He had all the bugs worked out of the process before
beginning his three-and-a-half-day run.
I brought 50,000 of the new
20's with me and delivered them to my Chicago contact yesterday. His unit has the job of "laundering" the
bills,
so that an equivalent amount of genuine currency will be available for the Organization's expenses in this area. That's really
a
much trickier and more time-consuming operation than the printing.
At the same time I left for here, Katherine was boarding a flight for Boston with $800,000 in her luggage. Later this week
we will be
making deliveries in Dallas and Atlanta. Getting through the airport security checks with all that hot money
is a little ticklish, but as
long as they don't do anything other than x-ray our luggage we'll be all right. The only
things they seem to be looking for now are
bombs and firearms. But just wait until they begin picking up our hot bills
all over the country!
I had a chance to do some thinking on the plane
from Washington. From 35,000 feet one gets a different perspective on things.
Seeing all those sprawling suburbs and
freeways and factories spread out below makes one realize just how big America is and what
an awesomely difficult task
we have undertaken.
Essentially, what we are doing with our program of
strategic sabotage is hastening along somewhat the natural decay of America. We
are chipping away at the termite-eaten
timbers of the economy, so that the whole structure will collapse a few years sooner-and more
catastrophically-than without
our efforts. It is depressing to realize what a relatively small influence all our sacrifices are having on the
course
of events.
Consider our counterfeiting for example. We will have to print
and distribute in a year's time at least a thousand times as much money
as Bill printed last week-at least $10 billion
a year- before we will make even a barely measurable effect on the national economy.
Americans spend three times that
much just on cigarettes.
Of course, we have two other money presses running
on the West Coast, and we'll be setting up others in the near future. And if I can
figure a way to take out the Evanston
Project, that'll be a capital loss of nearly $10 billion in one stroke-not to mention the economic
damage which will
result from the loss of electrical power to industrial plants throughout the Great Lakes region.
But we are doing something else which is really more important than our campaign against the System. In the
long run, it will be
infinitely more important. We are forging the nucleus of a new society, a whole new civilization,
which will rise from the ashes of the
old. And it is because our new civilization will be based on an entirely different
world view than the present one that it can only
replace the other in a revolutionary manner. There is no way a society
based on Aryan values and an Aryan outlook can evolve
peacefully from a society which has succumbed to Jewish spiritual
corruption.
Thus, our present struggle is unavoidable, completely aside
from the fact that it was forced on us by the System and was not of our
choosing. Looking at the events of the past 31
months from this viewpoint-that is, considering our constructive task of building a new
social nucleus rather than our
purely destructive war against the System-it appears to me that our initial strategy of hitting System
leaders instead of the general economy was not really as bad a way to start as I had thought.
It shaped the character of the battle from the beginning as us vs. the System, rather than us vs. the economy.
The System responded
repressively to protect itself from our attacks, and this caused it to isolate itself to a certain
extent from the public. When we weren't
doing much but assassinating Congressmen, Federal judges, secret policemen, and
media masters, the people themselves did not
feel especially threatened, but they resented the inconveniences caused
by all the System's new security measures.
If we had hit the economy
from the beginning, the System could have more easily painted the struggle as one of us vs. the people,
and it would
have been easier for the media to convince the public of the necessity of collaborating with the System against a
common
menace-namely us. So our initial error in strategy has providentially made it easier for us to recruit now, when we are
deliberately working to make things as uncomfortable for everyone as we can.
And it isn't just the Organization which has been doing a lot of recruiting lately. The Order is also growing at a rate
unprecedented in
the last 48 of its nearly 68 years of existence. I surreptitiously made the Sign when I met our pickup
man here yesterday-as I always
do when I meet new Organization members now - and I was pleasantly surprised when he responded
in kind.
He invited me to be a guest at an induction ceremony last night
for new probationary members in the Chicago area. I gladly R
accepted, and I was astounded to count approximately 60
persons at the ceremony, nearly a third of whom were inductees. That's
more than three times the total number of members
the Order has in the Washington area. I was nearly as moved by the ceremony
as I was by my own induction a year and a
half ago.
April 14. Problems, problems, problems! Nothing has gone right
since I got back from Chicago.
Bill can't find any more of the paper
he used for the last batch of money, and he asked me to help him improvise. We tried tinting
some slightly off-color
paper of the same basic texture and composition, but the result was unsatisfactory. Bill will keep looking for
another
supply of the original paper, while I continue trying different tinting processes.
Then there was the delegation from the local Human Relations Council which visited the shop yesterday. Four Blacks and a
sick,
sick, sick White male, all wearing Council armbands, came into the print shop. They wanted to put a big poster
in the shop window-
the same kind one sees everywhere now, urging citizens to "help fight racism" by reporting
suspicious persons to the political police-
and leave a container for donations on the counter. Carol was behind the
counter at the time, and she told them, in effect, to go to
hell.
That, of course, wasn't the right thing to do, under the circumstances. They would have reported us to the political police,
if I hadn't
heard the commotion and intervened. I came up the basement stairs with what I hoped was a convincingly Jewish
expression on my
face and went into a "So, vot's goink on here, already?" routine. I laid it on thick-not too
thick, I hope -so they would get the message:
the shop manager here was himself a member of a minority group, a very
special minority group, and could hardly be suspected of
harboring any hostility for the Human Relations Councils or
their commendable efforts.
The head nigger began complaining indignantly
to me about Carol's rebuff. I cut him off with an impatient wave of my hand and
directed a look of mock shock at Carol.
"Of course, of course," I said, "leave your collection box here. It's for a good cause. But no
vindow
poster-not enough room. I vouldn't even let my cousin Abe put vun of his United Jewish Appeal posters there. Come! I show
you where."
As I officiously led the delegation toward the door,
I ordered Carol back to work in my best Simon Legree manner. "Yes, Mr. Bloom,"
she said meekly.
Out on the sidewalk I overcame my revulsion while I chummily put an arm around the shoulders
of the Black spokesman and directed
his attention to a store directly across the street. "Ve don't have so many
customers here," I explained. "But my good friend Solly
Feinstein has many people going in and out. And he
has a big vindow. He vill be happy for your poster to be there. You can put it
right under where it says 'Sol's Pawn
Shop,' and everybody vill see it. And be sure to leave him a donation box- two donation boxes;
he has a big store."
They all seemed pleased by my friendly suggestion and started across the street. But the
White, a sorry-looking specimen with
pimples and an imitation Afro, hesitated, turned, and said to me: "Maybe we
ought to get that girl's name. Some of the things she said
to us sounded definitely racist."
"Don't vaste your time on her," I responded brusquely, dismissing his suspicion with a wave. "She
is just a dumb shiksa, She talks
that way to everybody. I get rid of her soon."
When I re-entered the shop Bill, who had overheard the episode from the basement stairs, and Carol were convulsed
with: laughter.
"It's not really that funny," I admonished them with an effort at sternness. "I had to
do something right away, and if my pucker and my
phony accent hadn't fooled that crew of sub-humans we'd be in real trouble
now."
Then I lectured Carol: "We can't afford the luxury of
telling these creatures what we think of them. We have a job to do first, and then
we
will settle with that bunch once and for all. So, let's swallow our pride and play along as long as we have to. Those who
don't have
our responsibilities can get themselves investigated for racism if they want-and more power to them. "
But I could not repress a grin when I saw the poster go into place in the pawn shop window
across the street, blotting out most of
Sol's display of used cameras and binoculars. He must really have had to bite
his tongue! And now all the people who see that
particular poster will make the correct mental association between the
Council's thought-control program and the people behind it.
The last
thing to go wrong was Katherine coming down with the flu last night. She was scheduled to take a load of money to Dallas
this morning, but she was too sick to go, and it looks like she'll be in bed for another two or three days. Which means
that I'll be stuck
not only with a trip to Atlanta tomorrow, but I'll also have to make the Dallas delivery. That'll
be a whole day wasted on planes and at
airports, and I need the time badly for getting ready for the Evanston operation.
We want to hit the new nuclear power complex at Evanston during the next six weeks, while
they're still guiding tourists through it.
After the first of June, when it will be closed to the public permanently,
knocking it out will become much more difficult.
The Evanston Power Project
is an enormous thing: four huge nuclear reactors surrounded by the biggest turbines and generators in
the world. And
the whole thing sits on concrete pilings a mile out in Lake Michigan, which supplies the cooling water for the reactors'
heat exchangers. The Project generates 18,000 megawatts of electrical power-almost 20 billion watts! Incredible!
The power is fed into the power grid which supplies the entire Great Lakes region. Before
the Evanston Project went into operation
two months ago, the whole Midwest was suffering from a severe power shortage-much
worse than we have here, which is bad
enough. In some areas factories were restricted to operating only two days a week,
and there were so many unexpected blackouts in
addition that the region was on the verge of a real economic crisis.
If we can take out the new power plant, things will be even worse than they were before.
In order to keep the lights on in Chicago and
Milwaukee, the authorities will have to steal power from as far away as
Detroit and Minneapolis, where there is none to spare. All of
that part of the country will be hit hard. And it took
10 years to design and build the Evanston Project, so they won't be able to remedy
the situation very soon.
But the government has thought about the consequences of losing the Evanston Project too,
and the security there is pretty
formidable. One can't get near the place except by boat or airplane. And there are searchlights,
patrol boats, and strings of buoys
with nets of cable between them all around it, which makes the approach by water almost
out of the question.
The shore for miles in either direction is fenced
off, and there are a number of military radar and anti-aircraft installations behind the
fence, making any attempt to
crash an airplane loaded with explosives into the plant very unlikely to succeed.
It seems to me that about the only way we could mount an attack on the place by conventional means would be to sneak some
heavy
mortars within range, somewhere near the shore where there is a possibility for concealment. But, to my knowledge,
we don't have
that kind of weaponry available at the moment. Anyway, the really vital parts of the power station are
in such massive buildings that I
doubt a mortar attack could inflict more than superficial damage.
So, Revolutionary Command asked me to tour the place and come up with some unconventional ideas-which I have
done, but there
are still several tough problems to be solved.
My
visit there last Monday gave me a pretty good idea of the strengths and weaknesses of the security arrangements. Some of the
weaknesses are really quite astounding. Most astounding of all is the government's decision to let tourists into the place,
even
temporarily. The reason for that decision, I am sure, is the big fuss the anti-nuclear crazies have been making
about the plant. The
government feels obligated to show the public all the safety features which have been built into
it.
When I signed up for the tour, I deliberately loaded myself down
with all sorts of paraphernalia, just to see what I could get into the
plant. I carried an attaché case, a camera,
and an umbrella, and I filled my pockets with coins, keys, and mechanical pencils.
On the ferry boat which takes tourists
out to the plant there is very little security. They merely made me open my attaché case for a
cursory inspection.
But when I got into the guard station at the plant itself, they divested me of my case, camera, and umbrella. Then I
had
to walk through a metal detector, which picked up all the metal junk in my pockets. I emptied my pockets for the guards, but
then
they handed the stuff back to me. They didn't look closely at any of it. So, one can at least sneak an incendiary
pencil in.
What really interested me, though, was that one old gentleman
in my group was carrying a cane with a metal head, and the guards
let him keep it during the tour.
In essence, my idea is this: Since there's no way a single tourist can sneak in enough explosive material to
wreck the place-nor any
way he can position the small amount he could sneak in so it would be really effective, like
punching a hole in one of the reactor
pressure vessels, we may as well forget about explosives. Instead, we'll try to
contaminate the plant with radioactive material, so that
it can't be used.What makes this idea feasible is that we have
a source, inside the Organization, for certain radioactive materials. He's a chemistry
professor at a university in Florida,
and he uses the materials in his research.
We can easily pack enough
of a really hot and nasty radionuclide- something with a half-life of a year or so-into a cane or a crutch,
together
with a small explosive charge for dispersing it, to make the entire Evanston Power Project uninhabitable. The plant won't
be
damaged physically, but they'll have to shut it down. Decontamination will be such an enormous task that the plant
may very well stay
closed permanently.
Unfortunately, this will
be a suicide mission. Whoever carries the radioactive material into the plant will already have been exposed to
a lethal
dose of radiation before he gets to the plant gate with it. There's just no practical way to provide for any shielding.
The biggest worry is the radiation detectors which are all over the plant. If one of those gets a whiff of our man before
he's ready to do
his thing, it could get sticky.
I noticed, however,
no detectors in the entrance station of the plant, where the guards check the incoming tourists. There are several
in
the huge turbine-and-generator room, where the tourists are taken, and there is one beside the exit gate used by the tourists-
presumably to guard against the unlikely event of a visitor somehow pocketing a piece of nuclear fuel and trying to sneak
it out. But it
seems not to have occurred to them that someone might try to sneak radioactive material into the plant.
I remember pretty well where all the detectors are, and I'll have to consult with our
man in Florida on the likelihood of one of them
picking up something at a given distance from the material he will supply
us. If an alarm goes off after our carrier is in the plant but
before he gets to the generator room, he'll just have
to make a run for it. But we'll try to design our gadget so as to give him the best
possible chance.
The whole plan is pretty scary, but it has one big advantage: the psychological impact
on the public. People are almost superstitious
in their fear of nuclear radiation. The anti-nuclear lobby will have a
field day with it. It will catch people's imagination to a far greater
extent than any ordinary bombing or mortar attack.
It will horrify many people-and it will knock more of them off the fence.
I must confess that I'm glad at this point
that my probationary period still has 11 months to run and that I won't be asked to volunteer
for this particular mission.
Chapter XVII
April
20, 1993. A beautiful day, a day of rest and peace, after a hectic week. Katherine and I drove to the mountains early this
morning and spent the day walking in the woods. It was cool and bright and clear. After a picnic lunch we made love in a
little
meadow under the open sky.
We talked of many things, and
we were both happy and carefree. The only shadow which fell on our happiness was Katherine's
complaint about the number
of out-of-town trips the Organization has sent me on recently, even though I have been out of prison for
less than a
month. I didn't have the courage to tell her that in the future we will have even less time together.
I only found that out myself yesterday. When I reported to Major Williams last night after returning from Florida,
he told me that I'll be
traveling a lot in the next few months. I didn't get all the details from him, but he hinted
that the Organization is preparing for an all-
out, nationwide offensive this summer, and I am to be a sort of roving
military engineer.
But today I put that out of my mind and just enjoyed
being alive and free and alone with a lovely girl in the midst of Nature's beauty.
As we were driving home this evening,
we heard the news on the radio which capped a perfect day: the Organization hit the Israeli
embassy in Washington this
afternoon. No better date in the year could have been chosen for such an actions
For months an Israeli murder squad, working out of their embassy, has been picking off our people around the country. Today
we
settled the score-for the moment.
We struck with heavy mortars
while the Israelis were throwing a cocktail party for their obedient servants in the U.S. Senate. A
number of Israeli
officials had flown in for the occasion, and there must have been more than 300 people in the embassy when our
4.2inch
mortars began raining TNT and phosphorus onto their heads through the roof.
The attack only lasted two or three minutes, according to the news report, but more than 40 projectiles struck the embassy,
leaving
nothing but a burned-out heap of wreckage-and only a handful of survivors! So, we must have had at least two
mortars firing. That
confirms what I was told last week about our new weapons acquisitions.
One fascinating incident in the news story, which the censors somehow failed to cut before it was broadcast,
was the murder of a
group of tourists by an embassy guard. During the attack an Israeli came running out of the crumbling
building with a submachine
gun, his clothing in flames. He spotted a group of a dozen tourists, all women and small children,
gawking at the scene of destruction
from across the street. Shrieking out his hatred in guttural Hebrew, the Jew opened
fire on them, killing nine on the spot and critically
wounding three others. Of course, he was not charged by the police.
Your day is coming, Jews, your day is coming!
I should be getting to
bed early tonight in order to be ready for a long day tomorrow, but the excitement of our achievement this
afternoon
makes it impossible for me to sleep yet. The Organization has demonstrated once again what an incomparable weapon the
mortar
is for guerrilla warfare. I am much more enthusiastic now about our new plan for Evanston, and I'll be better braced for
overcoming any more balkiness on the part of our professor in Florida.
Last Saturday, when I was discussing my plan for getting radioactive material into the Evanston plant with Henry and Ed
Sanders,
they convinced me that a mortar could do the job better, and that we are now well supplied in that department.
So I redesigned the
delivery package, changing it from a walking cane to a 4.2-inch mortar projectile.
We will replace the phosphorus in three WP rounds with our radioactive contaminant. After
we have zeroed in the target with
conventional rounds, we'll fire our three modified projectiles, which will be adjusted
to exactly the same weight, of course.
This way of doing it has three
advantages over my original plan. First, it is surer; there is much less chance of something going
wrong. Second, we
will be delivering approximately 10 times as much contaminant, and the bursting charges in the projectiles will
disperse
it better than anything we could hope for with a loaded walking cane. And third, it need not be a suicide mission. We can
keep the "hot" projectiles shielded until the moment they are to be fired, so the mortar crew will not be exposed
to a lethal dose of
radiation.
My big
worry was whether we would be able to get our projectiles inside the power station, instead of just on the roof The building
is
so heavily constructed that I doubt that they would penetrate, even with delayed-action fuses. Ed Sanders convinced
me, though, that
once a 4.2-incher is zeroed in and firmly seated it will deliver rounds with sufficient accuracy and
a low enough trajectory so that we
will have an excellent hit probability on the side of the generator building facing
the shore, which is practically one, huge window, 10
stories high and more than 200 yards wide.
Armed with this new plan, I went to talk to Harrison, our Florida chemist. I explained to him that his part
of the job is to procure a
suitable radioactive material and then, using his special facilities, safely load it into
the mortar projectiles I will bring him.
Harrison had a fit. He complained
that he had only offered to supply the Organization with small quantities of radionuclides and other
hard-to-obtain materials.
He did not want to become involved in actually handling any ordnance, and he especially objected to the
quantity of material
required by our plan. Not many people in the country have access to so much radioactive material, and he is
afraid it
will be traced to him.
I tried reasoning with him. I explained that if
we try to load the projectiles ourselves, without the shielded handling facilities he has,
one or more of our people
will surely be exposed to a lethal dose of radiation. And I told him that he is free to choose a radionuclide,
or a mixture
of radionuclides, which will cast the least suspicion on him-so long as it is suitable for our purpose.
But he flatly
refused. "It's out of the question," he said. "It would jeopardize my entire career."
"Dr. Harrison," I replied, "I am afraid you do not understand the situation.
We are at war. The future of our race depends upon the
outcome of this war. As a member of the Organization you are obliged
to put your responsibility to our common effort ahead of all
personal considerations. You are subject to the Organization's
discipline."
Harrison turned white and began stammering, but I continued
relentlessly: "If you continue to refuse my request, I am prepared to kill
you on the spot." As a matter of
fact, I was unarmed, because I had flown down on a commercial airliner, but Harrison didn't know
that. He swallowed a
couple of times, found his voice, and said he will do what he can.
We
went over our figures and our requirements again and settled on an approximate timetable. Before I left I assured Harrison
that if
he feels this operation will place him in too much jeopardy to continue as a "legal" we can bring him
underground after it is completed.
He is obviously still very nervous and unhappy, but I don't think he will try to betray
us. The Organization has established a very high
degree of credibility for its threats. Just to be on the safe side,
however, we will use another courier when the time comes to drive the
modified projectiles down to Florida to be loaded
and brought back. No technical knowledge is required for that.
I don't
like to act like a "tough guy" and threaten people; that is an unnatural role for me. But I have very little sympathy
for people like
Harrison, and I am sure that if he had not agreed to cooperate, I would have leaped on him and strangled
him with my bare hands.
I guess there are a lot of other people who think they are playing it smart by looking out for
themselves and letting us take all the risks
and do all the dirty work. They figure they will reap the benefits with
us if we win, and they won't lose anything if we lose. That's the
way it has been in most other wars and revolutions,
but I don't believe it will work out that way this time. Our attitude is that those
whose only concern is to enjoy life
in these times of trial for our race do not deserve life. Let them die. In the conduct of this war we
certainly will
not concern ourselves with looking out for their welfare. More and more it will be a case of either being for us, all the
way, or against us.
April 25. Off to New York tomorrow for at least
a week. Several things cooking up there which require my attention. The business
down in Florida should have been taken
care of by the time I return, and, if so, it'll be another trip to Chicago for me, this time by car.
The Yids are really
screaming about the attack on their embassy. They are giving far more emphasis in the news media to this attack
than
they did to either the attack on the Capitol or the bombing of the FBI building. Each day on TV it gets worse, with more and
more
of the old "gas chamber" propaganda that has worked so well for them in the past. They are really pulling
their hair and rending their
garments: "Oy, veh, how we are suffering! How we are persecuted! Why did you let it
happen to us? Weren't six million enough?"
What an act of outraged
innocence! They are so good at it that they almost have me weeping along with them. But, strangely, there
has not been
another mention of the murder of those nine tourists by the Israeli guard. Ah, well, they were only Gentiles!
One unexpected benefit to us from the embassy action has been a major quarrel between
the Blacks and their Jewish patrons.
Purely by coincidence the attack
came three days before the date which had been set for a nationwide "strike for equality"- another of
those
giant media affairs to be stage-managed by the Human Relations Councils, in which "spontaneous" demonstrations were
to be
held simultaneously in a number of large cities, with Black and White citizens joining together in a call for the
government to break
down the last of the barriers between the races and assure the Blacks of "full equality."
But then last Thursday, the day after we hit the Israelis, the big boys in the Councils-Jews,
of course-called it all off. They decided
they can't afford to share the media spotlight with the Blacks until they have
finished milking their own "martyrdom" in the embassy
raid for all it is worth.
A few of the more militant Black leaders, who spent a long time working on the preparations
for the equality strike, didn't see it that
way. They have long resented the high-handed way in which the Jews manipulate
and exploit the entire "equality" movement for their
own ends, and this was the last straw for some of them.
There were angry accusations and counteraccusations, which culminated
Saturday in the Jews' number-one house nigger,
the nominal "chairman" of the National Association of Human Relations Councils,
giving a press interview at
which he denounced his Jewish masters. From now on, he said, the Human Relations Councils will not
recognize the Jewish
claim to minority status. They will be treated just like the White majority and will no longer be exempt from
investigation
and punishment for "racism."
He was out on his ear before he
knew what happened, of course, and his place has been taken by a better-housebroken Black, but
the fat is already in
the fire. On the streets the roving bands of Black "deputies" have gotten the word, and woe betide any member of
the self-chosen tribe who falls into their hands. Several have already died while being "questioned," just in
the last two days.
The "Toms" will eventually get their more militant and resentful brethren back into line,
but meanwhile Izzy and Sambo are really at
one another's throats, tooth and nail, and it is a joy to behold.
May 6. It's nice to be home again, even if only for a day. But New York was interesting!
I saw more ordnance up there than I ever
imagined we'd have at our disposal.
One of our specialized units in New York has been acquiring military materiel of all sorts and stockpiling it. The purpose
of my visit
was to survey the types of military gadgets available which might be useful to me in designing and building
special weapons and
sabotage devices, so that I can make recommendations for future procurement priorities.
I was met at the airport by a girl, who drove me to a wholesale plumbing supply store
in an incredibly filthy industrial and warehouse
area in Queens, near the East River. Garbage, old newspapers, and empty
liquor bottles were strewn all over. We had to navigate
around the stripped and rusting hulks of several abandoned autos
which nearly blocked the narrow street before the girl finally pulled
into a small, muddy parking area behind a tall,
chain-link fence.
She knocked at a steel door marked "employees
only," and we were quickly admitted to a gloomy, dusty storeroom filled with bins of
pipe fittings. There she turned
me over to a cheerful young man, about 25 years old, dressed in greasy coveralls and carrying a
clipboard. He introduced
himself only as "Richard" and offered me a cup of coffee from a disreputable-looking electric urn at one end
of a long counter near the door.
Then we took an old and rickety freight
elevator to the second floor of the building. When we stepped out of the elevator, I gasped in
surprise. In a huge, low-ceilinged
room, more than a hundred feet on a side, there were immense heaps of every sort of military
weaponry imaginable: automatic
rifles, machine guns, flame throwers, mortars, and literally thousands of cases of ammunition,
grenades, explosives,
detonators, boosters, and spare parts. I don't know how the floor supported it all.
In one corner of the room four men and a woman worked at two long benches under fluorescent lights. One man
was grinding the
serial numbers off automatic rifles, which he took one at a time from a stack of approximately 50, while
the others oiled and
reassembled the rifles and then carefully packed them inside a large hot-water heater from which
the top had been removed. I saw a
dozen large cartons nearby which contained other water heaters.
"That's the way we store and ship the weapons," Richard explained. "We remove the serial numbers
just to make it harder for the
authorities to figure out where we're getting the stuff, in case they ever find any of
it. And once the water heaters leave here, there's
no way they can be traced back to us. The phony shipping tags we put
on the cartons are coded to tell us what the contents are.
You'll find that our rather special water heaters have been
installed in the headquarters of quite a few of our combat units along the
east coast, but we ship them everywhere in
the country."
Almost in a daze, I wandered among the heaps of weaponry.
I stopped beside a ceiling-high stack of large, olive-drab crates.
Stenciled on each crate were the words: "Mortar,
4.2 inch, M 30, Complete," and under that, "Gross Wt. 700 lbs."
"Where did you get these?" I asked. I remembered all the work we had done a year and a half ago modifying just
one mortar of
ancient vintage.
"Those came in last week from
Fort Dix," Richard answered. "The people in one of our units just outside Trenton paid a Black supply
sergeant
on the base $10,000 to swipe a truck with those things on it and deliver it to them. Then they brought them up here two at
a
time in the back of a pickup.
"We receive materiel here from
more than a dozen bases and arsenals in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. Look what we
got last month from Picatinny
Arsenal," he said, throwing back a tarpaulin covering a nearby stack of cylindrical objects.
I leaned over to examine them. They were fiberboard tubes about two feet long and five inches in diameter.
Each one contained an
M329 high-explosive mortar projectile. There must have been at least 300 of them in that one pile.
Richard continued his explanation: "It used to be that
most of our new weapons were smuggled off military bases one at a time, by
our own people who were stationed there. But
lately we've switched to hiring Black service personnel to hijack the stuff for us by the
truckload. We don't always
get exactly what we want that way, but we get a lot more of it.
"We've
set up a couple of phony fronts posing as Mafia buyers for the illegal weapons-exporting business. Our people on the bases
steer the buyers to Blacks in charge of the weapons storage areas. For enough money they'll walk off with the whole base
for us.
They just have to share some of the money we give them with a few of their 'soul brothers' on guard duty.
"There are several advantages for us. First, it's easier for the Blacks to swipe
the stuff without getting caught. The political police
aren't watching them as closely as they are the White service
personnel, and the Blacks already have organized networks on all the
bases for siphoning off and selling tires, gasoline,
PX supplies, and other things for which there is a civilian demand. And it allows our
people in the service to concentrate
on their main task, which is recruiting other White servicemen and building our strength inside
the military."
I spent the rest of the day going through everything in the room and mentally cataloguing
it. When I left I took samples of a couple
dozen different types of high-explosive fuses, igniters, and other odds and
ends I wanted to experiment with. Which meant I had to
come back on the train.
The situation in the military is double-edged. With more than 40 per cent Blacks in the Army and nearly that
many in the other
services, morale, discipline, and efficiency are shockingly low. That makes it enormously easier for
us to steal weapons and also to
recruit, especially among the career personnel, who resent what has been done to their
services.
But it also poses a fearful danger in the long run, because
the day will come when we must make our move inside the military. With
so many Blacks under arms, there is bound to be
a bloody shambles. While we are cleaning out the Blacks and reorganizing the
services, the country will be virtually
defenseless.
Well, I guess it has been planned that way.
Chapter
XVIII
May 23, 1993. This is my last night in Dallas. I've been
here two weeks now, and I'd hoped to be heading back to Washington
tomorrow, but orders came in this afternoon to go
to Denver instead. It looks like I'll be doing approximately the same thing there I've
been doing here, which is teaching.
I have just finished conducting a crash course in the technology of sabotage for eight
selected activists here, and I do mean "crash";
this is the first free hour I've had since I arrived here when
I wasn't too tired to think. We've been at it from eight in the morning until
eight at night every day, with only a few
minutes off for meals.
I have taught the people here virtually everything
I know. We started by learning how to build improvised detonators, timers, igniters,
and other gadgets from scratch.
Then we studied the structure, properties, and performance characteristics of currently available
military devices which
can be adapted for various purposes. All my students can now disassemble and reassemble every type of fuse
and delay
device we studied, blindfolded.
After that we examined a large number
of hypothetical targets and worked out detailed plans for attacking them. We considered
reservoirs, pipelines, fuel depots,
rail lines, air terminals and aircraft, telephone exchanges, oil refineries, power transmission lines,
generating stations,
highway interchanges, grain elevators, warehouses, and various types of machinery and other manufacturing
equipment.
Finally, we picked a real target and destroyed it: Dallas's central telephone exchange.
That was yesterday. Today we held a post-
mortem and criticized the operation in detail.
Actually, everything went extraordinarily well; my students all passed their final examination with flying
colors. But I did everything
possible to guarantee there would be no slipups. We spent three full days preparing specifically
for the telephone exchange.
First we thoroughly pumped one of our local
members who had formerly worked in the building as an operator. She described the
layout for us, giving us the approximate
location of the rooms on each floor which held the automatic switching equipment. With her
help we made a rough map,
showing the stairwells, the employees' entrances, the guard room, and other pertinent details.
Then we prepared our equipment. I decided we would use surgical precision on this job rather than brute force;
besides, we didn't
have a sufficiently large quantity of explosives for a brute-force demolition job. What we did have
were three 500-foot spools of PETN-
filled detonating cord and a little over 20 pounds of dynamite.
I broke our eight activists up into four two-man teams. One man in each team carried a
sawed-off, auto loading shotgun, and the
other carried demolition equipment. Three of the teams were assigned to the
three floors of switching equipment, one to a floor. Each
of these teams was given one of the spools of detonating cord;
a five-gallon can of a homemade, napalm-like mixture of gasoline and
liquid soap; and a delayed-action detonator. The
fourth team was given a 20-pound satchel charge and a homemade thermite
grenade and assigned to the transformer vault
in the basement. The dynamite would wreck the transformers, and the thermite would
set the transformer oil afire.
About ten o'clock last night we were parked in two automobiles on a dark side street two
blocks from the telephone exchange. Every
few minutes a telephone company service truck went through the intersection
directly in front of us.
Finally the situation for which we had been
waiting occurred: a service truck came to a stop for the red light at the intersection, and
there were no other vehicles
or pedestrians in sight. We sped out of the side street, blocking the truck fore and aft while two of our
men jerked
open the truck doors and ordered the driver into the back at gunpoint. Then we drove all three vehicles back onto the side
street and transferred everyone and all our gear into the service truck.
That only took a few seconds, but we spent another half hour talking to the telephone serviceman we had kidnapped. With
a
minimum of prodding he answered a number of questions we still had about the location and layout of the switching equipment
in the
telephone building and about the security staff and procedures.
We were pleasantly surprised to learn that there was only one armed guard in the building at night and that he depended
upon a
direct line to the police substation five blocks away for backup in
case of emergency. We relieved the serviceman of his uniform and
his magnetically coded company security badge, which
was needed to unlock the rear employees' entrance at night. Then we tied
him securely with wire, gagged him, and drove
the truck back to the rear entrance of the telephone building.
I was
wearing the uniform. Following the serviceman's instructions, I gained entrance to the building while the others remained
hidden
in the truck. It was then only a matter of a moment to relieve the surprised guard of his gun and beckon to the
others to enter. While
our four teams fanned out through the building I found a convenient janitor's closet and used
the guard's own master key to lock him
in it.
From that point the
whole operation took less than five minutes. The three teams assigned to the switching equipment worked quickly
and efficiently.
While the man with the shotgun on each team herded any employees that were encountered into an office and kept an
eye
on them, the other man went to work on the equipment.
The detonating
cord was unreeled and laced through two or three long banks of electronic panels on each floor. Then the demolition
man
took the five-gallon can of napalm and sloshed its contents over large sections of the equipment, both those which had been
laced with the detonating cord and those which had not. Finally, a time-delay detonator was taped to one end of the detonating
cord.
As our men came racing down the stairs to join me on the ground floor, three deafening explosions rocked the windowless
building. A
moment later our fourth team came running up the stairs from the basement.
We wasted no time in piling back into the truck. Just as we drove out of the parking lot, the satchel charge
went off in the basement
transformer vault with a roar which caused a huge section of the brick facade on one side of
the building to split off and topple into the
street, exposing the interior, which by now was filled with flames and
smoke from the blazing napalm and burning switching gear.
The accounts of the operation in this afternoon's local newspaper
indicated that the two dozen or so employees who were in the
building managed to get out safely-all except the guard
I locked in the closet, who died of smoke inhalation. I feel guilty about that,
but it couldn't be helped; we were in
a hurry.
Although our destruction of the equipment in the telephone building
was pretty thorough, the telephone company has announced that
it expects to have most essential telephone lines back
in service within 48 hours and complete restoration of telephone service for the
city within two weeks.
That announcement did not surprise us. We knew that the telephone company can fly in new
equipment and teams of repair
specialists to quickly undo the damage we did. Our attack on the telephone exchange would
only make real sense as a blow against
the System if it had been coordinated with an all-out assault on a number of other
fronts.
The System has figured that out for itself, of course, and, not
having any way of knowing that yesterday's operation was only a
training exercise, it is bracing itself for the worst.
There are tanks at nearly every downtown intersection, and troops and police have
set up so many vehicle checkpoints
on all the main roads and freeways that automobile traffic is at a virtual standstill throughout the
city. If it weren't
for that, I'd be leaving for Denver tonight instead of tomorrow.
June
8. Received a note from Katherine today! It came enclosed in a box of equipment I had asked the Organization to have sent
to
me from the shop back home. I didn't discover the note until I unpacked the box, and so there was no chance to send
a reply with the
courier who made the delivery.
She and the others
have all been working 70 to 80 hours a week in the shop, she repors, printing money mostly but also large
quantities
of propaganda leaflets. She suspects from the urgency with which the leaflets have been requested that a major new
campaign
is afoot in the Washington area. (She'll find out what's afoot soon enough!)
She thinks I am still in Dallas, and she says she is hoping she will be ordered to make another cash delivery to Dallas
soon so she
can see me. How my heart aches to be with her again, even if only for a few hours!
There's not much chance of my getting back to Washington again for at least another three weeks, though. Things
have really
mushroomed out here in the Rocky Mountain area. The Organization is not particularly strong here, and yet
Revolutionary Command
has designated 43 high-priority targets in the area- more than half of them military installations-
which we must prepare ourselves to
hit simultaneously when the order is given, probably early in July.
On top of that, there is practically no one out here with any experience in specialized
ordnance, and so I am having to train everyone
from scratch-26 students altogether. They will have the responsibility
for preparing and using all the incendiary and explosive devices
required for the assigned targets in the area. Fortunately,
we do have several military people here with an excellent grasp of guerrilla
tactics, and so I am restricting my training
to the technical end only and leaving the tactics to the military people.
Despite the narrower scope of my work here, it's still going more slowly than in Dallas, because things are so spread out.
It was
deemed inadvisable to try to hold classes for 26 people at a time, so I meet with six here m Denver; 11 in Boulder,
a college town
about 20 miles north of here; and nine in a farmhouse just south of here. I see each group every third
day, but I give them plenty of
homework to do between meetings.
We've initiated virtually no violent actions against the System in the Rocky Mountain
area so far, and the general atmosphere here is
quite a bit more relaxed than along the East Coast. Something very unpleasant
happened last week, though, which serves as a grim
reminder that the struggle here will be just as brutal and vicious
as anywhere else.
One of our members, a construction worker, was caught
trying to sneak a few sticks of dynamite off the construction site where he
was employed. Apparently he had been smuggling
a dozen or so out in his lunch box every day for quite a while.
The site
guard turned him over to the local sheriff, who immediately searched the man's house and found not only a big cache of
dynamite but also several guns - and some Organization literature. The sheriff figured he had stumbled onto something which
could
really give a boost to his career. If he could crack the Organization in the Rocky Mountain area, the System would
be very grateful to
him. He would have a good chance of winning a seat in the state legislature, perhaps even becoming
lieutenant governor or being
appointed to some other high post in the state government.
So the sheriff and his deputies began beating our man, trying to make him name other Organization members.
They gave him a
vicious working over, but he wouldn't talk. Then they brought in the man's wife and began slapping and
kicking her around in his
presence.
The outcome was that our man,
in desperation, snatched a revolver from the holster of one of the deputies. He was shot dead by
another deputy before
he could pull the trigger. The wife was handed over to the FBI and flown back to Washington for interrogation.
She should
not be able to give them any significant information, but I shudder to think of the ordeal to which she is being submitted.
The sheriff's glory was short-lived, however. The evening of the day our member was killed, the sheriff appeared in a televised
news
interview, boasting of the blow he had struck in the name of law, order, and equality and pompously warning that
he would treat with
equal ruthlessness any other "racists" who fell into his hands.
When he arrived home that night after his TV interview, he found his wife on his living-room floor, with her
throat cut. Two days later
his patrol car was ambushed. His bullet-riddled body was found in its burned-out wreckage.
It is a terrible thing to kill women of our own race, but we are engaged in a war in which
all the old rules have been scrapped. We are
in a war to the death with the Jew, who now feels himself so close to his
final victory that he can safely drop his mask and treat his
enemies as the "cattle" his religion tells him
they are. Our retribution against the sheriff here should serve as a warning to the Jew's
Gentile henchmen, at least,
that if they adopt the Jew's attitude toward our women and children, then they cannot s expect their own
families to
be safe. (Note to the reader: Several 1 sets of books containing the Jewish religious doctrine, which was 1 called
"Judaism,"
are still extant today. These books, the Talmud and the Torah, do, indeed, refer to non-Jews as, "cattle." Especially
horrifying to us is the attitude the Jews had toward non-Jewish women. The word they used to designate a girl of our race
was
"shiksa," which was derived from the Hebrew word meaning both "abomination" and "non-kosher
meat" or "unclean meat.")
June 21. I was stopped at a
police roadblock driving back from Boulder tonight. No problem getting through it; they just checked my
driver's license
(i.e., the late and unlamented David S. Bloom's license), asked me where I was going, and took a quick look in the
car.
But the roadblock had traffic backed up for miles, and other motorists were really fuming. One of them told me this is the
first time
they've used roadblocks in this area.
The roadblock and
a couple of hints I've caught on news broadcasts in the last few days lead me to believe that the System knows
something
big is cooking. I hope they don't tighten up security out here the way they have back on the East Coast, it'll mess up our
plans if they do.
On the other hand, it'll do these bumpkins around
here a lot of good to get a full dose of Big Brother's loving care. Most of them hardly
ever see a Black or a Jew, and
they act as if there's not a war going on. They seem to think that they're far enough away from the
things that are plaguing
other parts of the country that they can keep on with their same old routine. They resent any hint that they
may have
to halt their pursuit of pleasure and affluence long enough to cut a cancer out of America that will surely destroy us all
if it's
not eliminated soon. But it's always been that way with Boobus Americanus.
I'm quite concerned that I've heard no news of Evanston. I've been expecting the raid there every day since
the last week of last
month. Has there been more trouble with Harrison? Or has Revolutionary Command decided to postpone
the Evanston raid, perhaps
until our big offensive next month?
There
was no indication of such a postponement at my last briefing. More than likely the trouble is Harrison, damn him! When I
recalculated the hit probability on the target at the range given me by our Chicago mortar team just before I left Washington
for
Dallas, I decided we should distribute our radioactive contaminant among five rounds instead of only three. That
gives us a probability
of nearly 90 per cent that we'll get one or more rounds into the generator building. But Harrison
may have balked at having to handle
that much ordnance. If that's the case, why hasn't someone told me?
I'm also becoming concerned that I've received no orders as to what I'm to do when I finish
my work here next week. If I don't get
back to Washington then, I'm afraid
I may not make it before the big push starts. I want to be back there with Katherine and the others
when everything hits
the fan next month. And I can't see any reason why I shouldn't, because there will hardly be time to send me
anywhere
else to set up another training course in special ordnance.
Chapter XIX
June 27, 1993. So, I finally have my orders! It's
to be California for me during our big summer offensive. At first I was very
disappointed that I won't be able to go
back to Washington, but the more I consider the implications of some of the things I was told
this afternoon, the more
I'm convinced that the real focus of our activity in the next few weeks will be on the West Coast. It looks like
I'll
be in the thick of things there, and that will be a welcome change from all this classroom work, at least.
Denver Field Command summoned me and six of my pupils to a meeting today on two hours'
notice. We were told almost nothing,
except that I and four of the others are to be in Los Angeles by Wednesday night
at the latest. The last two were given a destination
in San Mateo, just outside San Francisco.
I protested immediately and vehemently: "All these people have been trained especially to attack specific
targets in this area. And
they've been trained as teams. It doesn't make sense to break them up now and send some of
them to California, when they can be
so much more effective here. If they are sent away, our whole program for the Rocky
Mountain area will be jeopardized."
The two DFC officers at the
meeting assured me that their decision had not been made capriciously and that they are fully cognizant
of the validity
of my objections, but that more pressing considerations must prevail. I finally forced them to reveal that they had
received
an urgent order from Revolutionary Command to transfer every activist they could spare to the West Coast immediately.
Apparently
other field commands all over the country have received similar orders.
They were reluctant to say more, but from the emphasis they put on our deadline for reporting to our California destinations,
I strongly
suspect that things are set to blow sometime next week.
I did accomplish one thing this afternoon: I arranged to have Albert Mason, who was to go to San Mateo but whose presence
here is
really essential to the success of the operations planned for this area, swapped for another man. But I had trouble
gaining even that
concession. I insisted on knowing exactly what criteria had been used in selecting the men to be transferred.
It turned out that, except
in my case, there were two: infantry combat experience and rifle marksmanship-which makes
it look like they want snipers and
barricade fighters out on the Coast, rather than saboteurs and demolition experts.
Al, it is true, qualified as an "expert" with the rifle when he was in the service,
and he spent three years as a squad leader in
Southeast Asia. (Note to the reader: Turner is referring to the so-called
"Vietnam War," which had been over for two decades at the
time but which played an enormously important role
in laying the groundwork for the Organization's later success in dealing with the
System's armed forces.) But he has
also been my best pupil here. He is the one man I spent time with explaining some of the newer
military gadgets we expect
to acquire in our raids on the arsenals around here. He is the only one I am sure will be able to use the
new M-58 laser
range finders, for example, and teach our mortar teams how to use them too. And he is also the only one here to
whom
I taught enough basic electronics so that he can rig up the radio-controlled detonators which are an essential part of our
plan
for knocking out the highway network in this area and keeping it knocked out.
Only when I pointed out these things to DFC did they agree to let Al stay here. We then spent half an hour
going over a list of all the
other activists here before we found one I thought could go to California in Al's place
without jeopardizing things here and who also
satisfied their criteria.
My impression is that everything we planned for this area is still "go," and it is still considered important
for us to achieve our
objectives here, but the really critical theater of operations will be the West Coast. We are approximately
doubling our manpower
there with these last-minute transfers, but we are doing it in such a way that at least most of
the operations planned for other areas
can go ahead, though with fewer personnel.
Well, we only have 48 hours to drive more than 1,000 miles, and there's no telling how many checkpoints we'll
be stopped at. The
others will be by to pick me up in about two hours, and then it'll take me at least four hours to
pack my gadgets in the car so they
won't be found if we're searched. I think I'll take a quick nap now.
July 1. Wow! Are things tense here! We arrived yesterday, around one in the morning, after
a trip I'd just as soon forget. The others
are dispersed to their assigned units, but I'm staying with Los Angeles Northwest
Field Command temporarily, in a place called
Canoga Park, about 20 miles northwest of Los Angeles proper.
It is apparent that the Organization is much more solidly entrenched
here than elsewhere, simply from the fact that there are eight
different field commands in the Los Angeles metropolitan
area, whereas one suffices for most other major cities in the country. That
would indicate an underground membership
here in the 500-700 range.
Mostly, I've been catching up on my sleep
since I arrived, but the other people here don't seem to be doing any sleeping at all.
Couriers are constantly coming
and going, and conferences are being held at all hours. This evening I finally buttonholed someone
and got at least a
partial briefing on the situation.
A simultaneous assault on more than
600 military and civilian targets all over the country has been scheduled for next Monday
morning, July 4. Unfortunately,
however, one of our members here was picked up by the police on Wednesday, just a few hours
before our arrival. It seems
to have been just a fluke. He was stopped on the street for a routine identification check, and the cops
became suspicious
about something.
Since the man is not in the Order, he was neither prepared
nor under an absolute obligation to kill himself if captured. The great worry
for the last two days has been that, under
torture, he will reveal enough of what he knows to tip off the System to the fact that a major
assault is scheduled for
Monday. Then, even though the authorities won't know just which targets we plan to hit, they'll tighten up
security everywhere
to the point that our casualties will be unbearably high.
Revolutionary
Command has two choices: silence our man before he can be interrogated, or reschedule our entire offensive. The
latter
choice is almost unthinkable: too many things have been carefully arranged and synchronized in detail for next Monday to allow
the date to be advanced, and a postponement might run into months-with enormous risks attendant on having so many people,
already primed for Monday, knowing so much for so long.
So it was decided
yesterday to act on the first choice. But even that presents a major problem: we can't hit our man here in Los
Angeles
without risking blowing the cover of one of our most valuable legals, a special agent in the FBI's Los Angeles office. That's
because the prisoner is being held in a location which is supposed to be a big secret. If we raid the place, they'll only
have; half-a-
dozen people to suspect as the one who leaked the information to us.
The System's customary procedure when they pick up one of our people is to perform only a very cursory interrogation
in the field-
just enough to determine whether there is any indication that the prisoner is connected in any way with
the Organization. If there is,
then he is flown back to Washington for a thorough working over by their Israeli torture
specialists. And the latter is what we can't
afford to let happen.
The interesting thing in this particular case-and the thing which has kept Revolutionary Command in a state of agonized
indecision for
two days now-is that the FBI has been holding the prisoner here, instead of flying him back to the Washington
headquarters Thursday
morning, as soon as they suspected they had an Organization member. No one seems to know exactly
why, not even our FBI legal. It
may just be an instance of organizational inefficiency on their part. Or perhaps they're
bringing an interrogation team out here from
Washington this time, contrary to their previous routine.
Anyway, RC has decided to hold off on the hit and see what happens. If no move is made
to put the prisoner on a plane for
Washington or to interrogate him further here within the next 36 hours, the problem
will be solved; any information the System
extracts from him will come too late to interfere with our Monday schedule.
But if a transfer or an interrogation seems imminent before
Sunday afternoon, we're prepared to launch a lightning raid
on the FBI's secret prison here, even at the risk of losing our inside man
in the local FBI office, whose information
in coming months can be invaluable to us.
As for me, I still don't know
why I'm here or what I'm supposed to do, and I'm not sure anyone else does either. I was just told to wait.
Well, I guess
we're really facing a major test again, like we did in September 1991. It just seems incredible to me that the
Organization
is actually launching an all-out assault on the System in two days. The total number of men we can put on the firing line,
for the whole country, can't be more than 1,500, despite the very rapid gains in recruiting we've made in the last few months.
Altogether-including our support personnel, our female members, and our legals-our strength
can't possibly exceed 5,000 people,
and I'd estimate that nearly a third of them are concentrated here in California
now. It just seems unreal- like a gnat planning to
assassinate an elephant.
Of course, we're not expecting the System to collapse Monday. If it did we wouldn't know how to cope with the situation,
because the
Organization is still far too small to take over the running of the country and the rebuilding of American
society. We'll need an
infrastructure 100 times as large as we have now to even begin tackling that job.
What we will do Monday is escalate the conflict to a new level and forestall the System's
latest strategy for dealing with us. We really
have no choice in the matter; if the Organization is to survive and continue
growing under the very difficult circumstances which have
been imposed on us, we must maintain our momentum-especially
our psychological momentum.
The danger in not constantly escalating the
war is that the System will find a new equilibrium, and the public will become accustomed
to it. The only way to maintain
the present influx of recruits is to keep a substantial portion of the public psychologically off balance-
keep them
at least half convinced that the System isn't strong enough and efficient enough to wipe us out, that we are an irresistible
force, that sooner or later the war will sweep them, too, up in it.
Otherwise, the worthless bastards will take the easy way out by just sitting back to see what happens. The
American people have
already proved that they can shamelessly continue their crass pursuit of pleasure under the most
provocative conditions imaginable -
so long as new provocations are introduced gradually enough for them to become accustomed
to them. That's our greatest danger in
not acting.
Besides that,
however, the political police are continually tightening the screws. Despite our extraordinary security procedures, they
will eventually succeed in penetrating the Organization and wrecking us-if we give them time. And it's becoming harder all
the time for
us to move around without being picked up. Very soon now, the new internal passport system which we wrecked
more than a year
ago will be back on the tracks, twice as mean as before. I don't know how we'll survive when that becomes
operational.
Thinking back over the last two years, though, it's amazing that we've survived even until now. There have
been a hundred times
when I didn't know how we'd be able to last another month.
Part of the reason we've been able to make it this far is something for which we really can't take credit-and
that's the inefficiency of
the System. They've made some bad mistakes and failed to follow up on a lot of things which
could have hurt us badly.
One gets the impression that except for the Jews, who are really burning the midnight oil in
their efforts against us, the rest of the
System is a bunch of clock-watchers. Thank "equal opportunity"-and
all those niggers in the FBI and in the Army-for that! The System
has become so corrupt and so mongrelized that only
the Jews feel at home in it, and no one feels any loyalty toward it.
But
a bigger part of the reason is the way we've adapted to our peculiar circumstances. In just two years the Organization has
learned a whole new way of existence. We're doing a number of things now which are absolutely vital to our survival but
to which we
had given almost no thought two years ago.
Our interrogation
technique for checking out new recruits, for example; there's no way we could have lasted this long without that,
and
we didn't develop it until we absolutely had to have it. What we would have done without Dr. Clark to work out the technique,
I
don't know.
And then there's the matter of false identities. We
had only the vaguest ideas about coping with this problem when we first went
underground. Now we have a number of specialized
units who do nothing but provide nearly foolproof false identities for our activists.
They are real professionals, but
they've had to learn their rather gruesome trade in a hurry.
And money-what
a problem that was in the beginning! Having to count our pennies affected our whole psychology; it made us think
small.
So far as I know, no one in the Organization had ever given any serious thought to the problem of financing an underground
movement before the problem became crucial. Then we learned the counterfeiting trade.
It was providential that we had someone in the Organization with the requisite technical knowledge, of course,
but we still had to set
up our distribution network for getting the counterfeit bills into circulation after we'd printed
them.
In just the last few months this accomplishment has made an enormous
difference for all of us. Having a ready supply of cash - being
able to buy whatever we need instead of hijacking it,
as in the old days-has made things much easier. It has given us greater mobility
and greater safety.
There's been a certain element of luck in our success so far, and there's no doubt that
Revolutionary Command has been doing a
pretty good job of generalship. We've had good planning, a good strategy-but,
more than that, we've shown the ability to meet new
challenges and solve new problems. We've remained flexible.
I think the history of the Organization proves that no one can make a fixed plan for a
revolution and then stick to it. The future is
always too uncertain. One can never be sure how a given situation will
develop. And totally unexpected things are always happening-
things that no planner, however thorough, could have foreseen.
So, in order to be successful, a revolutionary must always be ready
to adapt to new circumstances and take advantage
of new opportunities.
Our record in that regard is reassuring, but I
cannot help being apprehensive about next week. I am sure we will knock hell out of the
bastards Monday. We will throw
a good-sized monkey wrench into the country's economic machinery if only half the things we have
planned come off successfully.
And we will force the System into a state of total mobilization, with the resulting psychological shock to
the general
public.
But what then? What about next month and the month after that?
We're throwing everything we've got into next week's offensive, and
there is just no way we can keep up such a level
of activity for more than a few days. We are stretched too thin everywhere.
And yet my instinct tells me that the Organization
is not acting purely from desperation now. We are not making one, last, desperate
effort to wreck the System Monday.
At least, I hope not. If we make an all-out effort, then have to retrench when it fails-as it surely will-
the psychological
effect will be as lethal for us as it will be helpful for the System.
So Revolutionary Command must have something up its sleeve I don't know about. I am sure the heavy concentration
of our people
in California is a clue, but I can't figure it out.
Chapter XX
July 7, 1993. Looks like I'll be here till morning, so I can take an hour or so now to
record the events of the last few days.
This is really a swanky place. It's a penthouse apartment from which we can see
most of Los Angeles-which is why we're using it as a
command post. But the luxury is unbelievable: satin sheets; genuine
fur bedspreads; gold-plated bathroom fixtures; wall taps which
dispense bourbon, scotch, and vodka in every room; huge,
framed, pornographic photographs on the walls.
The apartment belonged to one Jerry Siegelbaum, a business agent for the
local Municipal Employees Union-and the star subject of
the dirty photos on the walls. Looks like he preferred blonde,
Gentile girls, although his partner in one picture is a Negress, and he's
with a young boy in another. Some representative
of the workers he was! I hope someone moves him from the hallway outside soon;
there's been no air-conditioning since
Monday, and he's beginning to stink pretty bad.
This huge city presents
quite a different aspect now from the last time I had an overall view of it at night. The blaze of lights outlining
all
the main streets is gone. Instead, the general blackness is broken only by hundreds of fires randomly scattered through the
city. I
know there are thousands of vehicles moving down there, but they are driving without lights, so they won't be
shot at.
For the last four days one has heard the practically continuous
scream of sirens from police and emergency vehicles mixed with the
sound of gunfire and explosions and the whirring clatter
of helicopters. Tonight there is only the gunfire, and not much of that. It looks
like the battle here has reached a
decisive stage.
At two o'clock Monday morning more than 60 of our combat
units struck simultaneously throughout the Los Angeles area, while
hundreds of other units hit targets all across the
country, from Canada to Mexico and from coast to coast. I haven't heard yet what we
accomplished elsewhere, because the
System has clamped a total censorship on all the news media-the ones we haven't seized
ourselves, that is-and I haven't
had a chance to talk to any of our own people who've been in contact with Revolutionary Command.
But here in Los Angeles
we've done surprisingly well.
Our initial assault cut off all water and
electrical power into the metropolitan area, knocked out the main airports, and made all the
major freeways impassable.
We took out the telephone exchanges and blew up every gasoline storage depot. The harbor area has
been almost a solid
mass of flames for four days now.
We seized at least 15 police stations.
Mostly we just took their weapons, destroyed their communications equipment and whatever
vehicles were not on patrol
at the time, and then pulled out. But apparently our people are still holed up in several police buildings
and are using
them as local command posts.
At first the cops and the firemen were running
around like chickens with their heads cut off-sirens and flashing lights everywhere. By
Monday afternoon, however, communications
had broken down so badly and there were so many fires and other emergencies that
the police and fire departments were
being much more selective in their responses. In many areas our teams were able to go about
their work practically without
interference. Now, of course, most emergency and police vehicles are out of fuel and can't move at all.
And the ones
which still have gas seem to be lying low.
The whole key to neutralizing
the police-and to everything else, for that matter-was our work inside the military. It was apparent to
everyone as early
as Monday afternoon that something big was happening inside the military establishment. For one thing, other than
the
troops and tanks guarding power stations, TV transmitters, and so on-as always-no military units were deployed against us.
For
another thing, there were obvious signs of armed conflict inside all the military bases in the area.
We could see and hear jet fighter-bombers swooping low over the city, but they were not
attacking us-at least, not directly. They were
strafing and bombing the dozen or so California National Guard armories
in the metropolitan area. Those jets were apparently from El
Toro Marine Air Station south of here. Later we saw several
dogfights in the sky over Los Angeles and heard that Camp Pendleton,
the big Marine Corps base about 70 miles southeast
of here, was being hit by heavy bombers from Edwards Air Force Base. All in all,
a very confusing scenario for everyone
concerned.
But Monday evening, quite by chance,
I ran into Henry, of all people, and he explained quite a bit of the military situation to me. Good
old Henry-how glad
I was to see him again!
We met in the KNX transmitter building, where
I was helping our broadcast team get the station back on the air after we seized it.
That, by the way, is what I've been doing for four days: repairing shot-up transmitters, shifting transmitter
frequencies, and
improvising equipment. We now have one FM station and two AM stations on the air, all operating from
emergency generators. In all
three cases we cut the cables from the studios and installed our broadcast teams directly
at the transmitter sites.
Henry came roaring up to KNX in a jeep, wearing
a U.S. Army uniform with colonel's insignia and accompanied by three soldiers
carrying machine guns and anti-tank rockets.
He was bringing the text to be broadcast-a text directed primarily at military personnel.
As soon as I had finished splicing
our microphone and audio equipment into the transmitter input, Henry and I stepped to the side to
talk while his message
was being read over the air by our announcer. It consisted of an appeal to all White military personnel who
had not already
done so to join our revolution, together with a warning to those who failed to heed the appeal. The message was very
well
designed, and I am sure its effect on both military and civilian listeners was powerful.
Henry, it turned out, has been in charge of the Organization's entire recruiting effort in the armed forces
for over a year, and he has
been concentrating his efforts on the West Coast since he was transferred here last March.
The story he told me was a long one, but,
together with what I have learned since then its essence is this: "We
have been recruiting inside the military on two levels since the
Organization was formed. At the lower level we operated
semi-openly before September 1991 and clandestinely afterwards That
involved the dissemination of our propaganda among
enlisted personnel and non-coms, mostly on a person-to-person basis."
But, Henry told me, we have also been recruiting
at higher levels, in the utmost secrecy.
Revolutionary Command's strategy
hinged on our success in winning over a number of high-ranking military commanders, and on
Monday we began playing that
hidden trump. That's why the armed forces haven't been used against us and also why various military
units have been
shooting and bombing each other the last four days.
The intra-military
conflict started with units commanded by our sympathizers on one side and those loyal to the System (by far the
majority)
on the other side. Another aspect to the conflict soon developed and overshadowed the first, however: Black against White.
Military units commanded by pro-Organization officers began disarming all Black military personnel as soon as we launched
our
Monday-morning attack. The excuse they used was that Black militants had launched a mutiny in other units and that
their orders
from higher up were to disarm all Blacks to prevent the j spread of the mutiny. Generally, White servicemen
were ready and willing to
believe that story and did not need to be told twice to turn their guns against the Blacks
in their units. Those few whose liberal
predispositions made them hesitate were shot on the spot.
In other units our enlisted personnel simply began shooting any Blacks they saw in uniform and then deserted
to units commanded
by our sympathizers. The Blacks, naturally enough, reacted in such a way as to make the story about
a Black mutiny come true. Even
in those units commanded by pro-System officers heavy fighting between Blacks and Whites
broke out.
And, since some of these units are nearly half Black, the
fighting has been bloody and prolonged. The result has been that, although
the units commanded by our sympathizers initially
had only about five per cent of the strength of the pro-System units, most of the
latter have been paralyzed by internal
fighting between Blacks and Whites. And now Whites are coming over in increasing numbers
to our units because of this.
Our broadcasts have helped this process along greatly. We have exaggerated our own strength,
of course, and have told White
servicemen who want to join our units where to go. And to help convince them-as well as
to keep the niggers spooked and doing their
thing-we have turned one of our transmitters into a phony "soul"
station and been broadcasting a call for a Black revolution, telling the
Blacks to shoot their White officers and non-coms
before the Whites can disarm them.
About the only military units in the
Los Angeles area able to offer any effective opposition to us have been some Air Force fighter and
bomber units-and the
Marine air unit at El Toro. They have been attacking military units believed to have come over to us. But,
according
to Henry, they have been doing about as much damage to the pro-System forces as to ours.
Henry chuckled as he explained to me that the Organization had been unable to make sufficient headway in its
recruiting in the
California National Guard to be able to count on any Guard units coming over to us. So the Organization
kidnapped the local Guard
commander, General Howell, just before the Monday morning attack, as a preventive measure.
When the System couldn't locate Howell, they were apparently afraid he had joined us.
Their fears were undoubtedly confirmed when
they heard that he had hurriedly left his home with three strangers after
midnight Monday, less than an hour before everything hit the
fan. Anyway, their suspicions got the better of them, and
so they ordered all the National Guard armories and depots bombed by loyal
air units Monday afternoon.
And at Camp Pendleton we were nowhere near having the upper hand before the System panicked
and ordered in the bombers. I am
sure that move is what tilted things in our
favor. There is still heavy fighting in the Pendleton area, but we are apparently on top there
now.
I don't know from which base the column of tanks came that neutralized the main Los Angeles
police headquarters for us today, but
they were certainly a godsend. We never could have done it without them.
From the beginning the L.A. cops have been our only really organized opposition. The smaller
police forces in surrounding
jurisdictions have not been a particular problem. Some we knocked out of action completely;
others decided to lie low and mind their
own business after a few early skirmishes. But the 10,000 or so men in the L.A.P.D.
were very much in action against us until a few
hours ago, and the going was very rough. We've had at least 100 KIA's
here in the last four days-between 15 and 20 per cent of our
local combat strength.
I don't know why we failed to do the same thing with the police here we seem to have done with the military.
Perhaps it was just a
shortage of cadres on our part, and military recruiting was given a higher priority than police
recruiting. In any event, the main police
headquarters here almost immediately became the center of counter-revolutionary
resistance.
The L.A. city cops were joined by some sheriff's units from
the county and even by some state highway patrol units, and they turned
their main headquarters building into a fortress
that was impregnable to anything we could bring to bear against it. In fact, it was
almost certain death for any of our
people to venture within a couple of blocks of the place. They had a large store of fuel, more than
a thousand vehicles,
and emergency power for their communications equipment, and they out manned us by a large factor.
Using helicopters for reconnaissance, they pinpointed our various strong-points and the buildings we had seized,
and they sent out
raiding parties involving as many as So vehicles and 200-300 men. Our demolition of virtually every
highway overpass had limited
their mobility to a large extent, but their airborne observers were able to route them around
many obstacles.
We managed to protect certain really vital points-including
the radio stations we had seized-only by having well-dug-in machine-gun
crews covering the avenues of approach. Fortunately,
the cops had only a few armored vehicles, because most of our people had no
weapons for dealing with armor. It was only
today that anti-tank weapons became generally available to our combat teams.
If the L.A. cops had been able to link up with any military units remaining loyal to the System, that would have been the
end of us.
Fortunately, a dozen old M60's from a unit which had come
over to us got to them first. They rolled right over the roadblocks the
police had set up around their headquarters,
riddled the building with HE and incendiary shells, and liberally sprayed the hundreds of
police vehicles in the area
with machine-gun fire.
The cops' communications and power were knocked
out, and their building was set afire in d dozen places. They had to evacuate the
building, and we rained 81-mm mortar
fire down on the surrounding parking lots and streets until the area became untenable for
them. The place is deserted
now and still burning. Most of the cops seem to have made their way to their homes and changed into
civilian clothes.
Now that most of the organized resistance against us here has been neutralized, everything
hinges on whether we can get this area
effectively under our control before military units from other parts of the country
are sent in. I don't understand why that hasn't already
happened.
I was told just a couple of hours ago to report
in the morning to a group of our technical people who will have the task of planning the
details of restoring some electrical
power and some water to the area, reestablishing routes for vehicular traffic, and locating and
securing all remaining
supplies of gasoline and diesel fuel. Sounds like more of a job for a civil engineer than for me.
It also sounds a little
premature, but it is encouraging to know that Revolutionary Command seems to be confident of the future.
Perhaps I'll
find out more about the overall situation tomorrow.
July 10. Well, well, well! Things have really been happening- some
good things and some bad things, but mostly good, so far.
The military-and-police situation seems to be essentially under
control here-and, in fact, for most of the West Coast, although there is
apparently a lot of fighting still going on
around San Francisco and in a few other areas.
And there are still a few armed groups here-some cops and some military
personnel-roving around and causing a little mischief. But
we've secured all the bases and military airfields here and
will round up stray personnel in another day or two. The order is out now to
shoot on sight anyone carrying arms unless
he is wearing one of our armbands.
That's a welcome switch from a few
days ago, when we were the ones liable to be shot on sight. After years of hiding, slinking around
in disguises, and
getting sick with fear every time we saw a cop, it's a wonderful feeling to be out in the open-and to be the V ones
with
the guns.
The big problem here has become a civilian one. The civilian
population has gone completely amok. Actually, one can hardly blame
them, and I'm surprised they behaved themselves-more
or less-as long as they did. After all, they've been without electric power and
without
a water supply for a week. A very substantial portion of them have also been without food for several days.
For the first couple of days-Monday and Tuesday-the civilian population did just what
we expected them to do. Hundreds of
thousands of them piled into their cars and onto the freeways. They couldn't go very
far, of course, because we had blown up a
number of key interchanges, but they did manage to create a collection of the
most monumental traffic jams imaginable, thus finishing
our task for us of making ground travel almost impossible for
the police.
By Tuesday afternoon most of the White population had returned
to their homes - or, at least, to their own neighborhoods-many of
them leaving their stalled cars on the roads and hiking
back. They had discovered, first, that there was no feasible way for them to
leave the Los Angeles area by automobile;
second, that they couldn't buy gasoline, because the electric pumps at the filling stations
weren't working; third, that
most stores and businesses were closed up tight; and fourth, that something really big was happening.
They stayed home, kept their transistor radios on, and worried. There was remarkably little crime or violence,
except in the Black
areas, where rioting, looting, and burning began early Monday afternoon and grew progressively more
intense and widespread.
By early Thursday, however, there was a good bit of looting in White areas as well, mostly of
grocery stores. Some people had not
eaten for more than 48 hours by then and were acting from desperation rather than
lawlessness.
Since it wasn't until Thursday night that we began to feel
sure we had the police licked, we did nothing to discourage civilian disorder.
The more of them in the streets, hungry
and desperate, smashing store windows and stealing food, looking for drinkable water and
fresh batteries for their radios,
getting into fights with other people looking for the same things, the less time the police had for us.
That, of course,
was the principal idea behind our knocking out power, water, and transportation at the very beginning.
If the police had had only us to cope with, we couldn't have won. But they couldn't handle us and a general
breakdown of public order
at the same time.
Now, however, we're
the ones with the job of restoring order, and it's going to be a bitch. The people are absolutely out of their minds
with
fear and panic. They are behaving in an entirely irrational manner, and a great number of lives are bound to be sacrificed
before
we get things under control. Partly, I'm afraid, starvation and exhaustion are going to have to do it for us,
because our manpower and
other material resources are entirely inadequate for the task.
Today I went out with a fuel recovery team, and I got a close look at our civilian problem. It really shook
me. We were driving a big
gasoline tank truck, with an armed jeep escort, from filling station to filling station in
the Pasadena area, pumping the gasoline out of
each station's tanks and into our truck. There's enough fuel in the area
to meet our own needs for quite a while, but the civilians are
just going to have to get along without their cars for
the duration.
Pasadena used to be mostly White a few years ago, but it
has become substantially Black now. In the Black areas, whenever we ran
into Blacks near a filling station, we simply
opened fire on them to keep them at a distance. In the White areas, we were mobbed by
hungry Whites begging us for food-which,
of course, we didn't have to give them.
It's a damned good thing they
have no firearms, or we'd be in a hell of a jam now. Thank you, Senator Cohen!
Oops! No more time to write now-have to
go to a meeting. We should get a briefing there on the national situation.
Chapter XXI
July 11, 1993. Busy day! We've got some electrical power coming back into the area now
from one of the hydroelectric plants up
north, but not much. Electricity has to be strictly rationed, and I spent all
day mapping out the sections of the metropolitan area which
were to be energized and then dispatching teams to cut or
switch out power lines and reconnect others. Later, if the rationing is
successful, we may also provide power to some
other sections.
Last night I found out why Washington hasn't tried to
send troops in here from other parts of the country: It's because we've got
Vandenberg AFB and all the missile silos
there!
For the first 48 hours after our Monday-morning attack last week,
the System was in such a panic and the military situation was so
uncertain that no major troop movements were possible.
Although we were spread so thin that there was no hope of seizing and
holding territory anywhere except here on the West
Coast, we did create an enormous amount of disruption, disorder, and confusion
everywhere.
Our people inside the military in other parts of the country had been instructed to carry out actions calculated
to temporarily paralyze
their units. This involved some sabotage, arson, and demolition, but to a much greater extent
it involved selective shootings. In units
with a high quota of non-Whites, our people shot down Blacks at random, shouting
slogans such as "White power!," with the
deliberate intention of provoking a Black reaction. This was followed
up by the same tactic which we used here so successfully:
seizing radio stations and broadcasting spurious calls for
Blacks to turn their guns against their White officers.
In other units
communications centers were seized and messages sent which created the false impression that the units had come
over
to us.
On top of all that, we wreaked real havoc on the civilian population.
Power plants, communication facilities, dams, key highway
interchanges, tank farms, gas pipelines, and everything else
that could be blown up or burned down was hit Monday morning in an all-
out effort, all across the country, to cause
civilian panic and keep the System temporarily occupied with the attendant problems.
I also learned that, along with
everything else, the raid on the Evanston Project took place Monday morning. I was immensely
pleased to hear that it
was a complete success.
So the net result was that, by the time the System
had assessed the situation and had regained enough confidence in the loyalty of
any of its military units to try to move
against us, we had finished mopping up Vandenberg and had issued our ultimatum: any military
move against us would result
in our launching nuclear missiles targeted on New York City and Tel Aviv. And that's why things have
been so quiet for
the last few days!
And now I understand Revolutionary Command's whole
strategy, which had eluded me for so long and caused me so many
misgivings. RC realized all along that there was no way,
with our present numbers, that we could sustain a military assault against
the System on a large enough scale for a long
enough time to bring it down. We could have continued our guerrilla campaign of
economic sabotage and psychological warfare
for quite a while, of course, but time was ultimately on the side of the System. Unless
we could make some really dramatic
breakthrough which would increase our numbers substantially, the System's growing police
powers would eventually paralyze
us.
Well, we've made the breakthrough now. And we've got the potential, at least, for some very substantial growth; there
are some
twelve million people under our control in the Los Angeles metropolitan area alone. How large the total population
base we have to
draw from is still not clear, because of the anomalous situation in northern California.
Under direct
Organization control at this moment is a strip of California which runs from the Mexican border to about 150 miles
northwest
of Los Angeles and from the coast inland for a distance varying from 50 to 100 miles. Included in this strip are San Diego,
Los Angeles, and all-important Vandenberg AFB. The Sierras and the Mojave Desert form a natural eastern boundary to our
territory.
In a further coastal strip which runs almost to the Oregon border and includes San Francisco and Sacramento,
an anti-System
military faction seems to be running things, but I gather that our own authority has not yet been established
there. And the states of
Oregon and Washington appear to be still firmly under System control, contrary to earlier rumors.
Elsewhere in the country, things are in a general uproar and
our hit-and-run raids are continuing, but the System is in no immediate
danger of collapsing. The main problem worrying
the government seems to be whether or not it can trust its own armed forces. As a
consequence of this worry, troops in
some areas are still confined to their bases, even though they are badly needed to restore order
among the civilian population.
In some of the worst areas of civilian rioting-primarily because of the disruption of
food supplies-the government is using special
military units made up of non-Whites only. They've rushed some of these
all-nigger units into the border area around our California
enclave.
The closest such unit seems to be in Barstow, about 100 miles northwest of here. Some White refugees from there have been
trickling into our area, and their reports are pretty sickening: mass rape and terror from the Black troops, who are lording
it over the
local Whites. I hate to hear of such things happening to White people, but the reaction can only be favorable
to us. And it's good that
we've forced the System to show its lack of confidence in the loyalty of the White population
and its dependence on non-White
elements.
What's most important
for us now, though, is that the government isn't trying to force its way into our territory. Our Vandenberg threat
is
holding them off for the moment, although that situation certainly won't last forever. But at least it gives us a chance to
try to get our
civilian population under control here.
And what
a mess things are in! There are more fires than ever, and rioting has become widespread. We simply don't have enough
people,
even including all the military personnel nominally on our side now, to maintain order while we restore essential utilities
and
set up an emergency food-distribution system.
We have altogether
about 40,000 armed-forces personnel at our disposal, nearly two-thirds of them in the metro area here and the
other third
scattered from San Diego to Vandenberg. It is a ticklish situation, though, because they outnumber Organization members
in this area by about 20 to one-which is actually not half as bad a ratio as I had thought earlier, but still quite bad
enough! The great
majority of these troops owe no loyalty to the Organization and, in fact, do not realize that their
orders are coming from us.
So far we have been keeping them busy day
and night, and they haven't had time to ask too many questions. Organization members
have been assigned to every military
unit, from the company level up, and Henry-whom I saw again briefly last night-seems to think
we've got a pretty good
grip on them. I hope so!
I have had a chance to chat with a few of the
troops we have been using for fuel-recovery and utility-repair crews. They seem to be
impressed by three facts: that
the government in Washington has totally lost control out here; that the Blacks, both inside the military
and outside,
are a dangerous and unreliable element; and that they, with weapons and food, are a lot better off than the civilian
population
right now.
But ideologically they are in poor shape! Some of them are
vaguely on our side; others are still chock-full of System brainwashing;
and most are somewhere in between. The one thing
that's keeping them in line now is the total absence of any alternate source of
authority here.
The System hasn't even gotten around to broadcasting appeals for loyalty aimed at our troops-probably because
that would
constitute an admission to the rest of the country just how big our win here has been. The official System
line at the moment is that
the situation is well under control, and the "racist gangsters" in California (that's
us) will soon be rounded up or liquidated. Since we
have been broadcasting appeals to revolt aimed at their troops day
and night and have also been giving a picture of the situation here
much rosier than it actually is, the System's story
sounds pretty hollow. Instead of denying our claims the System has simply started
jamming our broadcasts, which is probably
their shrewdest course.
July 14. The first substantial shipment of food
entered the metro area today-a convoy of 60-odd big tractor-trailers full of fresh
produce from the San Joaquin valley.
They unloaded at 30 emergency distribution points we've now got manned in the White
sections, but it was like trying
to fill the ocean with a thimble. We need at least five times as much food every day, just to maintain the
White population
at a bare-subsistence level.
There are still large stocks of non-perishable
food in warehouses here, even though all the grocery stores have been looted bare. As
soon as we're a little better organized
and have located and inventoried it all we can use this warehoused food to supplement the
incoming fresh food. Meanwhile,
there have been nasty incidents at several warehouses, where we've had to shoot a number of
people who wouldn't take
"no" for an answer.
The really nasty business is what we're
running into in the Black and racially mixed areas, though. I've spent the last two days
directing salvage crews in areas
which the troops have just finished clearing.
The job of the troops is
to separate the Blacks from the rest of the population and confine them in controlled-access areas until they
can be
convoyed out of our enclave. It's done in a quite simple and straightforward manner. A Black holding area is designated,
having been chosen for its proximity to a freeway heading east and for the ease with which all exits from the area can be
blocked.
Tanks and machine-gun crews take up positions at these exits.
Then a sweep through surrounding neighborhoods begins, converging on the designated holding
area. Groups of infantry are
preceded by sound trucks which repeatedly broadcast an announcement, such as: "All
Blacks must assemble immediately for food
and water supplies at the Martin Luther King Elementary School on 47th Street.
Any Black found north of 43rd Street after 1:00 PM
will be shot on sight. All Blacks must assemble ...."
At first, groups of Blacks tried to stand their ground and defy the troops, apparently
under the impression that the honkies wouldn't
actually shoot them. (Note to the reader: "Honky" was one of
many derogatory slang terms referring to a White person which was
used by Negroes in the three decades prior to the Great
Revolution. Its origin is uncertain.) They discovered their mistake quite soon,
however, and the word spread quickly.
Most Blacks moved along the streets leading into the designated areas a block or two ahead
of the slowly advancing infantry, who
made quick searches of each building as they came abreast of it. Blacks who had
not already vacated the premises were roughly
driven into the streets at bayonet point. If they put up any resistance
at all they were shot on the spot, and the sound of this
occasional gunfire helped to keep the other Blacks moving along.
There have so far been only about half-a-dozen instances of Blacks with contraband firearms barricading themselves in buildings
and
shooting at our troops. Whenever this happens the troops bypass the occupied building and call in a tank, which riddles
the building
with cannon and machine-gun fire.
Once again, it's a damned good thing the civilian population was
disarmed by the System years ago. If more Blacks had guns there'd
be no way we could deal with them, considering the
disparity in numbers.
My salvage crews move in right behind the infantry. Our job is to inventory and secure all essential
supplies and facilities: gasoline
and bulk quantities of other fuels, non-perishable food, medical supplies, heavy transport
vehicles, certain industrial facilities, etc.
The Blacks have pretty well cleaned out all the food in their areas, and
they've mindlessly destroyed a lot of the other things we're
looking for-although we are finding a lot of things they've
missed, including more than 40 tons of dried fish meal in a pet-food plant
just this morning. The stuff doesn't taste
very good, but this one batch will supply the minimum protein requirements of 100,000
people for a week. And yesterday
we ran across 30,000 gallons of liquid chlorine, which is needed for water purification. We also
recovered most of the
drug inventories of a hospital and two clinics, in which the drug storerooms were still intact even after rioting
Blacks
had ransacked the buildings.
We also found gruesome evidence of one way
in which the Blacks have solved their food shortage: cannibalism. They began by
setting up barricades in one main street
to stop cars driven by Whites, apparently as early as Tuesday of last week. The unfortunate
Whites were dragged from
their cars, taken into a nearby Black restaurant, butchered, cooked, and eaten.
Later the Blacks organized hunting parties and made raids into White areas. In the cellar of one Black apartment building
we found a
scene of indescribable horror attesting to the success of these raids.
I and a crew of my men noticed a commotion in front of the building as we finished checking the looted shambles
of an adjacent
warehouse and came out onto the street. A group of GI's milling around the entrance were obviously distressed
about something.
One of them came running out of the apartment building and began retching and vomiting on the sidewalk.
Then another, with a grim
expression on his face, led a young White girl out of the building. She was about 10 years
old, naked, filthy, and in an obvious state of
shock.
As soon as
I pushed my way into the building I recoiled from the horrible stench which permeated the place. Putting a handkerchief
over my nose and mouth didn't seem to help, but with the aid of my flashlight I descended the cellar stairs past two more
GI's who
were coming up. In the arms of one of them was a silently staring White child of about four, alive but apparently
too weak to walk.
The cellar, which was illuminated by two kerosene lanterns hanging from steam pipes, had been converted
into a human
slaughterhouse by the Blacks in the apartment building. The floor was slippery with half-congealed blood.
There were washtubs full of
stinking entrails, and others filled with severed heads. Four tiny, human haunches dangled
overhead from wires.
On a wooden workbench beneath one of the lanterns
I saw the most terrible thing I have ever seen. It was the butchered and partially
dismembered body of a teenaged girl.
Her blue eyes stared emptily at the ceiling, and her long, golden hair was matted with the
blood which had rushed from
the gaping wound in her throat.
I retched and stumbled back up the stairs
and out into the light again. I could not make myself go back into that awful cellar, but I sent
two of my crew with
cameras and lights down there to make a thorough photographic record. The photos will be useful for troop
indoctrination.
From one of the GI's outside the building I learned that parts of at least 30 children,
all White, had been found in the cellar, along with
the two who were still alive. They had been tied to a pipe in one
corner. In the rear courtyard of the building was an improvised
barbecue grill and a large pile of small, human bones
- thoroughly gnawed. We took photographs of the courtyard too.
I have been working in mostly Black areas, but I have also heard some pretty bad stories from our people who have
been in White
and Chicano areas. No cases of cannibalism by Whites or Chicanos have been reported-the Blacks are a race
apart in this respect-
but there's been a lot of killing in fights over food. And there've been some grisly atrocities
where gangs of Blacks have invaded White
areas and taken over White homes, especially in the wealthier districts, where
the homes are more isolated from one another.
On the positive side, in
some of the predominantly White middle-class and working-class neighborhoods, Whites have banded
together to protect
themselves from incursions by Blacks and Chicanos. This is a refreshing development, but surprising, m view of
the way
the morons out here have been voting in recent years. Is it possible that years of Jewish brainwashing have failed to take
hold in the White masses?
Actually, I'm afraid it has taken hold in
all too many cases. In the racially mixed neighborhoods, for example, the Whites have suffered
terribly in the last 10
days, and they've made virtually no effort to protect themselves. Without guns, of course, self-defense is pretty
much
a matter of numbers-and the will to survive. Although the Whites are badly outnumbered in only a few mixed neighborhoods,
they seem to have lost the feeling of identity and unity which the Blacks and Chicanos still have.
Most of all, though, many of them seem to be convinced that any effort at self-defense would be "racist,"
and they fear being thought
of as racists-or thinking of themselves that way- more than they fear death. Even when gangs
of Blacks took their children away or
raped their women before their eyes, they offered no significant resistance. Really
sick!
It's hard for me to feel sorry for Whites who won't even try to
protect themselves, and it's even harder for me to understand why we
should take chances and knock ourselves out to save
such brainwashed scum from the fate they richly deserve. And yet it is in the
mixed areas that we're having the most
trouble and taking the most chances!
We are reluctant to fire on crowds
where we may kill Whites as well as non-Whites, and the bastards apparently realize this and are
taking advantage of
it. In some neighborhoods we're meeting so much opposition that it's nearly impossible to achieve our goal of
separating
the various racial groups into enclaves.
Another big problem in trying
to achieve racial separation is that so many people in this area cannot easily be classified as White or
non-White. The
process of mongrelization has gone so far in this country and there are so many swarthy, frizzy-haired characters of
all
sizes and shapes running around that one doesn't know where to draw the line.
Nevertheless, we've got to draw the line somewhere, and soon! There is no way we can feed everybody in our area, and if
we're to
avoid mass starvation among the Whites we must separate them into clearly defined areas soon, where electricity,
water, food, and
other essentials are available. And we must move everyone else out of our area, one way or another.
The longer we delay, the more
unruly the public will become.
Actually
we have done pretty well at concentrating the Blacks. About 80 per cent of them are sealed in four small enclaves now, and
I
understand that the first mass convoy of them is heading east tonight. But for the rest, about all we've really done
is immobilize the
population, so they can't move from one neighborhood to another. We certainly don't have them under
control, and, so far as I'm
aware, we've not even begun mass arrests or taken any other action against Jews and other
hostile elements yet. Let's get on with
this now!
Chapter XXII
July 19, 1993. For the past five days I've been witnessing what surely must be one of the biggest mass migrations
in history: the
evacuation of the Blacks and mestizos and "boat people" from southern California. We've been
marching them to the east at a rate of
better than a million a day, and there still seems to be no end to them.
I learned at our unit meeting this evening, however, that tomorrow is expected to be the
last full day of evacuation. After that, it'll just
be a matter of sending them across the lines in batches of a few
thousand at a time, as we round up strays and finish separating
some areas which are still racially mixed.
My men and I have had the responsibility of finding transportation for those unable to
make the trek on foot. We started with flatbed
trucks and large tractor-trailer rigs able to haul a couple of hundred
people at a time, and we ended up using every delivery van and
panel truck we could find in or near the evacuated Black
and Chicano neighborhoods: nearly 6,000 trucks altogether.
At first we
tried to do a careful job of making sure each truck 1 had just enough fuel in its tank to make the one-way trip into T enemy
territory, but that took too long, and so we settled for l trying to be reasonably sure that each vehicle had at least enough
1 fuel for the
trip. 2
Late yesterday we began running out of trucks,
and so all day f today we have been using passenger cars. I broke up the roughly 300
men under me into squads of 10.
Each squad rounded up approximately 50 young Black volunteers-with the promise of food-who
claim they are experienced
at jumping the ignition on cars.
Then our squads began ferrying every
parked car, from Volkswagens to Cadillac's, which can be started and whose fuel gauge
indicates at least a quarter of
a tank of gasoline, into the packed debarkation areas. There our Black car-thief volunteers hustle a
pregnant Negress
or an elderly cripple behind the wheel, pack the vehicle with as many picaninnies and miscellaneous lame, sick,
and halt
non-Whites as it can possibly carry- f sometimes piling them on roofs and fenders- and send it on its way. Then back for
more cars.
I have been surprised to see how callous our volunteer Blacks
are toward their own people. Some of the older Blacks, who haven't
been able to fend for themselves, are obviously near
the point of death from starvation and dehydration, yet our volunteers handle
them so roughly and pack them so tightly
into the cars that it makes me flinch to watch them. When one overloaded Cadillac started
onto the eastbound freeway
with a lurch this morning, an ancient Negro lost his grip and fell off the roof, landing headfirst on the
pavement and
crushing his skull like an egg. The Blacks who had just loaded the car roared with laughter; it was apparently the
funniest
thing they've seen in a long time.
Our logistics have been terrible.
We've violated every security rule in the book and taken some extraordinary risks. There were
hundreds of times when
the Blacks could have jumped us, because we were spread so thin and often obliged to work deep within
their jarr-packed
enclaves without backup personnel to rescue us in the event of trouble.
I really don't have enough men to handle this job properly, and we've all been working at least 18 hours a day, often not
stopping to
rest until we're so tired we're stumbling. It's a good thing tomorrow is the last day, because I don't think
my men can last much longer-
or our luck either.
What we've accomplished
so far is really quite remarkable, though. We've moved out approximately half a million non-Whites who
couldn't possibly
have made it on foot. Each and every one of these is now the responsibility of the System-to feed and house and
clothe
and keep out of trouble. Together with the seven million or so able-bodied Blacks and Chicanos we're sending them, that's
quite a responsibility
This whole evacuation amounts to a new form
of warfare: demographic war. Not only are we getting the non-Whites out of our area,
but we're doing two additional things
which should pay off for us later by getting them into the enemy's area: we're overloading the
System's already strained
economy, and we're making life next to intolerable for the Whites in the border areas.
Even after the evacuees have been dispersed around the country, they will constitute about a 25 per cent increase
in the average
nonwhite population density outside California. Even the most brainwashed White liberals should find this
increased dose of
"brotherhood" hard to swallow.
On my way to the unit meeting about an hour ago, I stopped at an overlook above the main
evacuation route out of Los Angeles. It
was after sunset, but still light enough to see well, and I was awed by the sight
of the enormous stream of colored life moving slowly
to the east. As far as I could see in either direction, the unwholesome
flood crept along. Later we'll switch on the street lamps along
the freeway, and the march will go on all night. Then,
in the heat of the morning, the evacuation of the able-bodied ones will be reined
in enough so that we will have room
on the freeway for our vehicles to get through again. We found out at the beginning that when we
tried keeping the marchers
going during the day they dropped like flies.
The sight of that huge,
flowing swarm of non-Whites left me with an overwhelming feeling of relief that it was moving away from us,
out of our
area. And I shuddered with revulsion at the thought of being at the other end of the evacuation route and seeing that swarm
moving toward me, into my area.
If the System bosses had the option,
they'd turn the niggers back at the border with machine guns. But with the border manned with
mostly non-White troops,
it is pretty hard to give the order to fire on that non-White flood. Since the inundation began, they haven't
been able
to figure any way to stop it.
They are trapped by their own propaganda
line, which maintains that each of those creatures is an "equal," with "human dignity" and
so forth,
and must be treated accordingly. q Yes, sir, things are looking up here, and I'm sure they're looking Blacker and Blacker
elsewhere!
The proof of that is the counter flow of White refugees into our area from the east. From a hundred or so
a day 10 days ago, their
numbers have grown to several thousand a day. Our border guards have processed a total of more
than 25,000 Whites coming
across the line, up to this afternoon.
Most of these, it seems, are simply running to
get away from the Black troops and the Black and Chicano evacuees who have flooded
the enemy's border areas. If it is
easier for them to run west than east, they run west.
But about 10 per cent of them are not from the border areas at
all. They are White volunteers who have deliberately crossed over to
join our fight. Some have come from as far as the
East Coast, whole families as well as young men, who made their decision as soon
as it became apparent to the country
that our revolution has indeed established a foothold here.
July 24.
Boy! I'm really becoming a Jack of all trades. I just got back to HQ from a repair trip to the big switching station outside
Santa
Barbara. It's been acting up, knocking out our electrical power here every day or so, and I had to figure out what
was wrong and get a
repair crew to fix it. I'll certainly be glad when we get the civilian population here organized,
so that the people who're supposed to
keep the utilities running are back on the job again.
But we must do first things first, and that means reestablishing public order and insuring an adequate food
supply. We still don't have
order, but we're now bringing almost enough food into the metropolitan area to keep the people
from starving. I got some insight into
how we're managing that during the Santa Barbara trip.
In the countryside I passed literally hundreds of organized groups of White youngsters, some working in the
orchards and fruit
groves, others marching along the road singing, with fruit baskets slung across their shoulders. They
all looked tanned and happy
and healthy. Quite a difference from the hunger and the rioting in the cities!
I had my driver stop as we came abreast of a group of about 20 young girls, all wearing
heavy work gloves and miscellaneously
dressed in shorts and overalls. Their leader was a freckled 15-yearold with pigtails
who happily identified her group as the 128th Los
Angeles Food Brigade. They had just finished five hours of fruit-picking
and were headed for lunch at their tent camp down the road.
Well, I thought
to myself, this is hardly a brigade, but obviously a lot more organizing of the civilian population has been going on than
I've been aware of. I knew the girl was too young to be a member of the Organization, and, it soon developed, she was totally
innocent of any political understanding whatever.
All she knew was
that things back in the city are frightening and unpleasant, and so when the nice lady with the armband at the
emergency
food-distribution center had talked to her and her parents and told them that youngsters who volunteered for farm work
would be looked after and well fed, they had agreed she should go. That was a week ago, and yesterday she had been appointed
the
leader of her group of girls.
I asked her what she thinks about
her work. She said it is hard, but she knows it is important for her and her girls to pick as much fruit
as possible,
so their parents and friends back in the city will be able to eat. The adults at the camp have explained to them what an
important responsibility they have.
Had they also been told about the
significance of the revolution? No, she doesn't know anything about that, just that the Chicano farm
workers have left,
and now the White people will have to do all their work. She thinks that is probably a good idea. Other than that, all
that the girls have been taught is how to do their particular job-and the work songs and the hygiene lectures in the evenings,
around
the campfire.
Well,
that's not a bad beginning for 12- to 15-year-olds. There will be time for their further education later. If only the adults
were as
cooperative as the kids!
The girls did have one complaint:
their food. There was plenty of it, but it was all fruits and vegetables; no meat, no milk, not even any
bread. Obviously,
the people who're organizing the food brigades have a few logistic problems yet to work out too. We swapped the
girls
half a case of canned sardines and some boxes of soda crackers we had in the car in return for a basket of apples, and both
sides felt they had gotten a good deal.
Coming through the mountains
just north of Los Angeles we encountered a long column of marchers, heavily guarded by GI's and
Organization personnel.
As we drove slowly past, I observed the prisoners closely, trying to decide what they were. They didn't seem
to be Blacks
or Chicanos, and yet only a few of them appeared to be Whites. Many of the faces were distinctly Jewish, while others
had
features or hair suggesting a Negroid taint. The head of the column turned off the main roadway into a little-used ranger
trail
which disappeared into a boulder-strewn canyon, while the tail stretched for several miles back toward the city.
There may have been
as many as 50,000 marchers, representing all ages and both sexes, just in the portion of the column
we passed.
Back at HQ I inquired about the strange column. No one was
sure, although the consensus was that they were the Jews and the
mixedbreeds of too light a hue to be included with the
evacuees who were sent east. I remember now something which puzzled me a
few days ago: the separation of the very light
Blacks-the almost Whites, the octoroons and quadroons, the unclassifiable mongrels
from various Asian and southern climes-from
the others during the concentration and evacuation operations.
And I
think I now understand. The clearly distinguishable nonwhite are the ones we want to increase the racial pressure on the
Whites outside California. The presence of more almost-White mongrels would merely confuse the issue-and there is always
the
danger that they will later "pass" as White. Better to deal with them now, as soon as we get our hands
on them. I have a suspicion
their trip into that canyon north of here will be a one-way affair!
But obviously there's still a lot of sifting-out to do. We have cleared the all-Black and all-Chicano areas
and certain all-Jewish
neighborhoods, but there are still areas, comprising nearly half the urban territory under our
control, where utter chaos prevails Jews
in these areas, working with reactionary elements among the Whites, are becoming
more brazen by the day. There is nearly
continuous demonstrating and rioting going on in the worst sections, and the
Jews are using leaflets and other means to maintain the
general unrest in other sections. Since Friday four of our people
have been killed by snipers. Something must be done soon!
July 25. A
very pleasant contrast today with most of my work of late: I spent the day interviewing some of the volunteers who have
crossed into our area since July 4, trying to pick a hundred or so for a special problem-solving group which will begin
doing in a
regular and systematic way the sort of engineering and logistic chores I and my crew have been stuck with
till now.
The people I talked to had been pre-screened before they got
to me, and they all have an engineering or industrial-management
background. There are about 300 men, plus a hundred
or so wives and children, which is an indication of the really substantial flow of
new blood into our area. I don't know
what the total is up to now, but I do know that the Organization has increased its strength in
California several times
over in the last three weeks- and we are taking as members only a small fraction of the new volunteers.
The great majority have either been organized into labor brigades, primarily for farm work, or, in the case
of most of the males of
military age, put into Army uniforms and given rifles we've salvaged from one of the bombed-out
National Guard armories. In the
latter way we are gradually increasing the overall reliability, if not the proficiency,
of the military force under our control. Many of these
"instant soldiers" have had little or no military training,
and we haven't had a chance yet to give them any of the ideological
preparation which the new Organization members are
receiving, yet they are clearly more sympathetic to our cause, on the average,
than the regular GI's. We are integrating
them into the regular units as rapidly as we can.
I queried the people
I saw today about their present living arrangements and family situations as well as about their training and work
experience.
Nearly all of them have been assigned to a block of recently vacated housing in a former Black area, just south of Los
Angeles proper. The Organization has set up a new unit HQ in a small apartment building there, and that's where the interviews
took
place.
There were very few complaints from the people I talked
to, although they all mentioned the extraordinarily filthy condition of the
buildings into which they have moved. Some
of the apartment units are so saturated with filth they are simply not habitable.
Everyone, however, has pitched in cheerfully,
and the disinfecting, scrubbing, and repainting effort has made a remarkable
transformation in just a couple of days.
I made a brief inspection tour, and it was heartwarming to see pretty, White children
playing quietly where previously hordes of
screaming, young Blacks had swarmed. A group of about two dozen parents were
still working on the grounds around the
apartments. They have collected a small mountain of litter: beer cans, cigarette
wrappers, empty TV-dinner cartons, demolished
furniture, and rusted-out appliances. Two women have marked off a sizable
area of barren, thoroughly trampled lawn with stakes and
string and are spading up the earth for a community vegetable
garden. In windows which had previously known only torn paper
shades, bright curtains-improvised from bed sheets and
home-dyed, I imagine- have gone up. Fresh flowers are on sills formerly
occupied only by empty liquor bottles.
Most of these people arrived here with little more than the
clothes on their backs, having left everything behind and risked their lives
in order to be with us. It's a shame we
are unable to do more for them now, but they're the type who are pretty well able to do for
themselves.
One of the first volunteers I picked this morning was a man to find a suitable truck somewhere
and use it regularly for hauling refuse
away from the new settlement and bringing in food each day from the nearest distribution
point, which is about six miles away. He will
be responsible for his own mechanical maintenance and for finding gasoline
wherever he can, until we have time to set up a new fuel-
distribution system. He is a 60-year-old who formerly owned
his own plastics factory in Indiana, but he is happy to be a garbage man
here!
By the time we get the overall civilian situation whipped into shape, the average population density in our
part of California will be a
little less than half what it was a month ago. There'll be the greatest plenty of housing
for new people coming in, and we'll probably
level about half the residential and commercial areas in Los Angeles county,
plant trees, and make parkland of them. That lies in the
future, though, and for now our aim is simply to settle the
new people temporarily in areas well separated from those we haven't
pacified and weeded yet.
But even the tiny beginning we have already made fills me with joy and pride. What a miracle it is to walk
streets which only a few
weeks ago were filled with non-Whites lounging at every street corner and in every doorway and
to see only White faces-clean,
happy, enthusiastic White faces, determined and hopeful for the future! No sacrifice is
too great to successfully complete our
revolution and secure that future for them-and for the girls of the 128th Los
Angeles Food Brigade and for millions of others like them
throughout our land!
Chapter XXIII
August 1, 1993. Today has been the Day of the Rope-a grim and bloody day, but an unavoidable
one. Tonight, for the first time in
weeks, it is quiet and totally peaceful throughout all of southern California. But
the night is filled with silent horrors; from tens of
thousands of lampposts, power poles, and trees throughout this
vast metropolitan area the grisly forms hang.
In the lighted areas one
sees them everywhere. Even the street signs at intersections have been pressed into service, and at
practically every
street corner I passed this evening on my way to HQ there was a dangling corpse, four at every intersection.
Hanging
from a single overpass only about a mile from here is a group of about 30, each with an identical placard around its neck
bearing the printed legend, "I betrayed my race." Two or three of that group had been decked out in academic robes
before they were
strung up, and the whole batch are apparently faculty members from the nearby UCLA campus.
In the areas to which we have not yet restored electrical power the corpses are less visible,
but the feeling of horror in the air there is
even worse than in the lighted areas. I had to walk through a two-block-long,
unlighted residential section between HQ and my living
quarters after our unit meeting tonight. In the middle of one
of the unlighted blocks I saw what appeared to be a person standing on
the sidewalk directly in front of me. As I approached
the silent figure, whose features were hidden in the shadow of a large tree
overhanging the sidewalk, it remained motionless,
blocking my way.
Feeling some apprehension, I slipped my pistol out of
its holster. Then, when I was within a dozen feet of the figure, which had been
facing away from me, it began turning
slowly toward me. There was something indescribably eerie about the movement, and I
stopped in my tracks as the figure
continued to turn. A slight breeze rustled the foliage overhead, and suddenly a beam of moonlight
broke through the leaves
and fell directly on the silently turning shape before me.
The first
thing I saw in the moonlight was the placard with its legend in large, block letters: "I defiled my race." Above
the placard
leered the horribly bloated, purplish face of a young woman, her eyes wide open and bulging, her mouth agape.
Finally I could make
out the thin, vertical line of rope disappearing into the branches above. Apparently the rope had
slipped a bit or the branch to which it
was tied had sagged, until the woman's feet were resting on the pavement, giving
the uncanny appearance of a corpse standing
upright of its own volition.
I shuddered and quickly went on my way. There are many thousands of hanging female corpses like that in this city tonight,
all
wearing identical placards around their necks. They are the White women who were married to or living with Blacks,
with Jews, or
with other non-White males.
There are also a number
of men wearing the l-defiled-my-race placard, but the women easily outnumber them seven or eight to one.
On the other
hand, about ninety per cent of the corpses with the I-betrayed-my-race placards are men, and overall the sexes seem to
be roughly balanced.
Those wearing the latter placards are the politicians,
the lawyers, the businessmen, the TV newscasters, the newspaper reporters
and editors, the judges, the teachers, the
school officials, the "civic leaders," the bureaucrats, the preachers, and all the others who,
for reasons
of career or status or votes or whatever, helped promote or implement the System's racial program. The System had
already
paid them their 30 pieces of silver. Today we paid them.
It started at
three o'clock this morning. Yesterday was an especially bad day of rioting, with the Jews using transistorized
megaphones
to whip up the crowds and egg them into throwing stones and bottles at our troops. They were chanting "racism must
go" and "equality forever" and other slogans the Jews had taught them. It reminded me of the mass demonstrations
of the Vietnam
era. The Jews have a knack for things like that.
But
by three o'clock this morning the crowds had long since finished their orgy of violence and chanting and were in bed-all except
a
few groups of diehards who had rigged up loudspeakers and were blaring System radio broadcasts out over the surrounding
neighborhoods, broadcasts which alternated between screaming rock "music" and appeals for "brotherhood."
Squads of our troops with synchronized watches suddenly appeared in a thousand blocks at once, in fifty different residential
neighborhoods, and every squad leader had a long list of names and addresses. The blaring music suddenly stopped and was
replaced by the sound of thousands of doors splintering, as booted feet kicked them open.
It was like the Gun Raids of four years ago, only in reverse- and the outcome was both more
drastic and more permanent for those
raided. One of two things happened to those the troops dragged out onto the streets.
If they were non-Whites-and that included all
the Jews and everyone who even looked like he had a bit of non-White ancestry
- they were shoved into hastily formed columns and
started on their no-return march to the canyon in the foothills north
of the city. The slightest resistance, any attempt at back talk, or
any lagging brought a swift bullet.
The Whites, on the other hand, were, in nearly all cases, hanged on the spot. One of the
two types of pre-printed placards was hung
on the victim's chest, his hands were quickly taped behind his back, a rope
was thrown over a convenient limb or signpost with the
other end knotted around his neck, and he was then hauled clear
of the ground with no further ado and left dancing on air while the
soldiers went to the next name on their list.
The hangings and the formation of the death columns went on for about 10 hours without
interruption. When the troops finished their
grim work early this afternoon and began returning to their barracks, the
Los Angeles area was utterly and completely pacified. The
residents of neighborhoods in which we could venture safely
only in a tank yesterday were trembling behind closed doors today,
afraid even to be seen peering through the crack in
drawn drapes. Throughout the morning there was no organized or large-scale
opposition to our troops, and by this afternoon
even the desire for opposition had evaporated.
I and my men were in the
thick of things all day, mostly handling logistics. When the execution squads began running out of rope, we
stripped
several miles of wire from power poles to use in its place. We also rounded up hundreds of ladders.
And we were the ones who pasted up the proclamations from Revolutionary Command in each block, warning all
citizens that
henceforth any act of looting, rioting, or sabotage, or any failure to obey the command of a soldier, will
result in the summary
execution of the offender. The proclamations also carry a similar warning for anyone who knowingly
harbors a Jew or other non-
White or who willfully provides false information to or withholds information from our police
units. Finally, they list the reporting point in
each neighborhood to which every person, at a time and date depending
upon the position of his name in the alphabet, is to report for
registration and assignment to a work unit.
I nearly got into a shooting fight with a company commander near City Hall this morning
about nine o'clock. That's where we were
taking all the big shots to be hanged: the well-known politicians, a number
of prominent Hollywood actors and actresses, and several
TV personalities. If we had strung them up in front of their
homes like everyone else, only a few people would have seen them, and
we wanted their example to be instructive to a
much wider audience. For the same reason many of the priests on our lists were taken
to one of three large churches where
we had TV crews set up to broadcast their executions.
The trouble was
that many of the big shots were arriving at City Hall already more dead than alive. The troops on the transport trucks
were really giving them a working over.
One famous actress, a notorious
race-mixer who had starred in several large-budget, interracial "love" epics, had lost most of her
hair, an
eye, and several teeth-not to mention all her clothes-before the rope was put around her neck. She was a bruised and bloody
mess. I wouldn't have known who she was if I hadn't asked. What, I wondered, was the point in publicly hanging her if the
public
couldn't recognize her and draw the a proper inferences between her former behavior and her punishment?
I was drawn to a commotion near one of the trucks which had just arrived. A grossly fat
old man, whom I immediately recognized as
the Federal judge who had handed down some of the System's most outrageous
rulings in recent years-including the one confirming
the power of arrest granted by the Human Relations Councils to their
Black deputies-was resisting the efforts of the troops to pull off
his pajamas and dress him in his judicial robe.
One of the soldiers knocked him down, and then four others began kicking him and repeatedly
slamming him in the face, stomach,
and groin with their rifle butts. He was unconscious, and perhaps already dead, when
the rope was knotted around his neck and his
limp figure was hauled about halfway up a lamppost. A TV cameraman was recording
the whole scene and broadcasting it live.
I was thoroughly disgusted by this latter incident and by several others of
a similar nature, and I sought out the officer in charge of the
troops there to lodge my complaint. I asked him why he
wasn't maintaining proper discipline among his men, and I told him in strong
terms that the beatings of the prisoners
were counterproductive .
We must maintain a public image of strength
and uncompromising ruthlessness in dealing with the enemies of our race, but to
behave like a gang of Ugandans or Puerto
Ricans hardly accomplishes that. (Note to the reader: Uganda was a political subdivision
of the continent of Africa during
the Old Era, when that continent was inhabited by the Negro race. Puerto Rico was the Old Era name
of the island of New
Carolina. It is occupied now by the descendants of White refugees from radioactive areas of the southeastern
United States,
but before the race purges in the final days of the Great Revolution it was inhabited by a mongrel race of especially
unsavory
character.) Above all else we must show ourselves as disciplined, since we will be demanding strict discipline on the part
of
the civilian population. We must never give vent to our feelings of frustration or our personal hatreds but must show
by our behavior
at all times that what we are doing is serving a higher purpose.
The captain exploded. He shouted at me to mind my own business. When I insisted that I was minding my business,
he became red
with anger and said that he, not 1, was the one who had the responsibility and that he was doing the best
he could under very difficult
circumstances.
He pointed out correctly that the Organization had replaced nearly half the men in his company with untrained
newcomers in the last
month, and so it shouldn't be surprising to me that discipline wasn't all it might be. He also
told me that he knew enough about the
psychology of his men to understand the value of letting them beat the prisoners
as a way of justifying to themselves that the
prisoners were their enemies and deserved to be hanged.
I really couldn't counter either of the captain's arguments, but I did note with some
satisfaction that when he turned away from me he
strode angrily over to a group of soldiers who were brutally pistol-whipping
a long-haired, effeminate-looking youth in an outlandishly
"mod" getup-a popular "rock" performer-
and ordered them to stop.
Upon thinking about it, I have come to see
things more from the captain's viewpoint. Of course, we must tighten up discipline a great
deal as soon as we can, but
for the moment it is better for us to have more political reliability and less discipline among the troops.
We delayed
our crackdown on the civilian population as long as we did just so we could weed out and disarm the questionable GI's
and
replace them with the new people who've been coming through the enemy lines to us.
Also, we wanted time to accustom the troops to the new order of things here and to give them at least a little ideological
preparation
for today's work. And we purposely let the civilians get more out of control than we might have, just so
we would have a manifest
excuse for taking thoroughly radical measures instead of half-measures, which could not have
solved the civilian problem in the long
run.
One other reason for
the delay I learned today was that we needed time to finish compiling our arrest lists. For several years
Organization
members here, just as in other parts of the country, have been building their dossiers of System toadies, Jew-fawners,
equalitarian theorists, and other White race criminals, along with their street directories of all non-Whites residing in
predominantly
White areas.
We were able to use the latter, which
were kept quite up to date even during the last month, without modification. But the dossiers
required a huge amount
of evaluation and weeding. In the first place there were far too many of them.
For example, a White family might have a dossier as race criminals because a neighbor had once observed a Black attending
a
cocktail party at their home or because they displayed one of the "Equality Now" bumper stickers, which have
been distributed so
widely by the Human Relations Councils. In general, unless there was also other evidence in a particular
dossier, these people were
not put on the arrest list. Otherwise, we'd have had to hang better than 10 per cent of the
White population-an entirely impractical task.
And even if we could hang
that many people, there would be no good reason for it; most of that 10 per cent are really no worse than
most of the
other 90 per cent. They have been brainwashed; they are weak and selfish; they have no sense of racial loyalty-but the
same things are true of most people these days. People are what they have become, and we have to accept that-as a starting
point.
Actually, it has been true all through history that only small
portions of a population are either good or evil. The great bulk are morally
neutral-incapable of distinguishing absolute
right from absolute wrong-and they take their cue from whoever is on top at the moment.
When good men are the rulers and the program-makers for a society, the population as a whole will reflect this,
and people with no
originality or moral sense of direction of their own will nevertheless fervently support the highest
aims of their society. But when evil
men rule, as has been the case in America for many years now, most of the population
will wallow happily in degeneracy of the worst
kind and will self-righteously parrot every filthy and destructive idea
that they have been taught.
Most judges today, most teachers, actors,
civic figures, etc., are not being consciously and deliberately evil, or even cynical, in
following the lead of the Jews.
They think of themselves as being f "good citizens," just as they would think of themselves if they were
acting
in a diametrically opposite way under the influence o f good leaders.
Thus,
there is no point in killing them all. This moral weakness will have to be bred out of the race over hundreds of generations.
For
now it is sufficient for us to eliminate the consciously evil portion of the population-plus a few hundred thousand
of our morally
crippled "good citizens" across the country, as an example to the rest.
The hanging of a few of the worst race-criminals in every neighborhood in America will help enormously in straightening
out the
majority of the population and reorienting their thinking. In fact, it will not only help, but it is absolutely
necessary. The people require
a strong psychological shock to break old habits of thought.
I understand all this, yet I must admit that I was troubled by some of the things I witnessed today.
When the arrests first started the public didn't realize what was coming, and many citizens
were cocky and abusive. I was present
shortly before dawn when the soldiers dragged about a dozen young people out of
a large house near one of the university
campuses, and they, as well as their housemates who were not arrested, were
screaming obscenities at our men and spitting on
them. All but one of those arrested here were either Jews, Blacks, or
mongrels of various sorts, and two of the loudest of them were
immediately shot, while the others were herded into a
marching column.
The last was a White girl,
about 19, a bit flabby but still pretty. The shootings had calmed her down enough so that she was no longer
screaming,
"Racist pigs!" at the soldiers, but when the preparations for her hanging shortly thereafter awakened her to her
own fate,
she became hysterical. Informed that she was about to pay the price for defiling her race by living with a
Black lover, the girl wailed,
"But why me?"
As the rope
was knotted around her neck, she blubbered out, "I was only doing what everyone else was. Why are you picking on me?
It's not fair! What about Helen? She was sleeping with him too." At this last outcry before the girl's breath was cut
off forever, one of
the other girls (presumably Helen) in the group of now-silent spectators on the lawn shrank back
in terror.
Of course, no one answered the girl's question, "Why
me?" The answer is simply that her name happened to be on our list and
Helen's didn't. There's nothing "fair"
about that-or unfair either. The girl who was hanged deserved what she got. Helen probably
deserves the same fate-and
she is undoubtedly suffering the torments of the damned now, in fear that she eventually will be found
out and forced
to pay the price her friend did.
This little episode has taught me something
about political terror. Its very arbitrariness and unpredictability are important aspects of its
effectiveness. There
are a great many people in Helen's situation, whose fear that lightning may strike them at any moment will keep
them
walking on eggs.
The melancholy aspect of the episode is epitomized in
the girl's lament, "I was only doing what everyone else was." That is a bit of an
exaggeration, but it is true
enough that had others not set a bad example for her the girl probably would not have become a race-
criminal. She paid
as much for the sins of others as for her own. Now I realize more than ever before how essential it is that we instill
in all our people a new moral basis, a new set of fundamental values, so that they will no longer be morally adrift like
that unfortunate
girl was-and like the great majority of Americans today are.
This total lack of any healthy or natural morality was brought home to me again just before noon. We were hanging a group
of about
40 land developers and real estate brokers outside the offices of the Los Angeles County Fair Housing Association.
They had all
participated in a special program which made lower mortgage rates available for racially mixed families
buying homes in
predominantly White neighborhoods. One of the realtors
was a sturdy, handsome fellow of about 35 with a blond crew cut. He was
vehemently defending himself: "Hell, I never
agreed with any of this race-mixing crap. It makes me sick to my stomach to see these
mixed families with their mongrel
brats. But a man has to earn a living. I was told by the head building inspector in the county that it
would be a lot
easier to avoid building-code violations for those realtors who went along with the special mortgage program."
Without realizing it, he was telling us that a bigger income came before racial loyalty
in his set of values-something which is
unfortunately true also of a great many who were not hanged today. Well, he made
his choice freely, and he hardly deserves any
sympathy.
The soldiers
didn't argue with him, of course. When his turn came, he was jerked off his feet with the same impartiality they had
shown
toward those who had accepted their fate in silence. They were under orders not to argue with anyone or to explain anything,
except a brief statement of the offense for which a person was being hanged. Not even the most convincing protestations
of
innocence or that "there must be some mistake" caused them to hesitate for an instant. Certainly, we must
have made some
mistakes today - mistaken identities, wrong addresses, false accusations-but once the executions began
there was no admitting to
the possibility of mistakes. We deliberately created the image of inexorability in the public
mind.
And apparently we were quite convincing. Our execution squads were
hardly back in their barracks this afternoon when we began
receiving reports from all over the city of what appeared
to be a sudden wave of murders and beatings. Corpses, most of them
showing stab wounds, were being found on sidewalks,
in alleys, and in apartment-building hallways. A number of injured persons-
several hundred altogether-were also picked
up on the streets by our patrols.
Although there were a few Blacks among
these beating and stabbing victims, we quickly determined that the great majority of them
were Jews. All apparently were
persons whom our execution squads had missed, but the citizenry had not.
Questioning of several Jews who had been beaten
soon revealed that at least some of them had been hiding with Gentile families.
After our proclamations were posted,
however, their protectors turned on them and drove them into the streets. Local vigilante groups
armed with knives and
clubs had ferreted out others who had not even been on our lists.
I am
sure that, without the forceful lesson of this Day of the Rope, we would not have so quickly elicited this sort of citizen
cooperation. The hangings have helped everyone get off the fence in a hurry.
Tomorrow afternoon some of my men will begin organizing civilian labor battalions to cut down the corpses and haul them
to the
disposal site I have already picked. It'll probably take three or four days to remove all the bodies-there are
between S5 and 60
thousand of them-and in this hot weather it'll be quite unpleasant toward the end.
But what a feeling of relief it is to finally have all the negative part of our task here
finished! From now on it's all uphill-in the good
sense: reorganizing, re-educating, and rebuilding this whole society.
Chapter XXIV
August 8, 1993. For the last four days I've been acting head of our newly organized Department
of Public Resources, Utilities,
Services, and Transportation (PRUST) for southern California. It is a strictly temporary
position, and within the next 10 days I will turn
the post over to another engineer, one of the group of volunteers I've
been working with during the last two weeks. He will have the
able assistance of a number of local people who were formerly
employed either by one of the state, county, or municipal agencies
here or by one of the private utility companies, and
I have confidence he'll be able to iron the remaining bugs out of the department.
With more than half the key people back at work here now, things are beginning to run almost normally. We have restored
electricity,
water, sewage treatment, rubbish collection, and telephone service to all the occupied areas now-although
electricity is strictly
rationed. We have even put about 50 gasoline stations back in operation, and those civilians
whose work assignments give them
priority status can obtain fuel for their f automobiles.
PRUST covers our whole enclave, all the way from Vandenberg to the Mexican border, and I've done a lot of traveling
to survey the
needs and resources of the various areas and to get everything roughly coordinated. I'm really very pleased
with what we've been
able to accomplish in such a short time. Next to the military and to the Department of Food, PRUST
has the most essential function to
perform and employs the most workers of all the agencies we've set up here.
One of the most interesting aspects of my work has been setting up the interfacing with
the Department of Food. They produce the
food; we transport it, store it, and distribute it. There were several problems
to be worked out, primarily because a certain amount of
the food which is produced does not go directly from the fields
to the distribution points but is processed first. This means that the
Department of Food needs to concern itself to
a certain extent with storage and transportation from field to processing plant, before
PRUST takes over the responsibility.
Also DF has a specialized transportation need in moving its workers from their living quarters to
the fields and back.
I have had to familiarize myself with DF's whole operation in order to decide the best
way to define our respective responsibilities. I
am very impressed by what I have seen. They have mobilized more than
600,000 workers-about a quarter of the entire productive
segment of the population under our control -for the production
of food. Between 10 and 15 per cent of these workers are those
Whites who were originally in farming or ranching in this
area. Nearly a third are young volunteers in the 12-to-18 age range. The rest
are people from urban areas who formerly
worked in non-essential occupations and have now been assigned to work crews under
DF's supervision.
Many in the last group are now doing the first really productive work in their lives.
This means DF is performing an important function
of social rehabilitation as well as food production, and our Department
of Education is working closely with DF on this. Every worker
receives ten hours of lectures each week, and he is graded
not only on his general attitude toward his work and on his productivity
but also on his responsiveness to these lectures.
There is a continual sifting process going on, with workers being reassigned to new work
groups on the basis of attitude and
performance in their previous groups. In this way there are already beginning to
emerge from the general mass the first leader-trainee
work groups. From the latter will be selected candidates for Organization
membership.
On several occasions during my tour of DF's operation I stopped
to talk with workers in the fields. The morale varied considerably
from the groups with a high proportion of former social
parasites to the leader-trainee groups, but nowhere could it be called poor.
Everyone has been made to understand that,
despite the dislocations and the hardships caused by the revolution, we are now sure
that there will be enough food to
go around-but those who will not work will not eat either.
My most profound
impression comes from the fact that every face I saw in the fields was White: no Chicanos, no Orientals, no
Blacks, no
mongrels. The air seems cleaner, the sun brighter, life more joyous. What a wonderful difference this single
accomplishment
of our revolution has made.
And the workers all feel the difference too,
whether they are ideologically with us or not. There is a new feeling of solidarity among
them, of kinship, of unselfish
cooperation to complete a common task.
Most of the news reports from
other parts of the country are very cheering to us. Although the System is still holding on, it is only
doing so through increasingly open and brutal repression. The entire country is under martial law, and the government
is relying
heavily on hastily armed and deputized Black goon squads to keep the White civilian population intimidated.
Half the System's regular
military units are still confined to their barracks as unreliable."
Conditions are deteriorating nearly everywhere. Power outages, transportation and communications breakdowns,
terror bombings,
food shortages, assassinations, and massive industrial sabotage are plaguing the System and helping
to maintain the general unrest.
The Organization's action units are doing a heroic job, but their losses are heavy. Their
only aim now is to maintain the pressure on
the System and the general population by striking at every available target
again and again and again, without letup.
From the new volunteers who
are slipping into our area through the enemy lines at a growing rate, we get a consistent story about
the effect the
chaotic conditions are having on people. The White liberals and the minorities are screaming hysterically for the
government
to "do something"; the conservatives are moaning, wringing their hands, and deploring the "irresponsibility"
of it all; and
the "average Joes" are becoming more and more exasperated with everyone concerned: us, the System,
the Blacks, and the various
liberal and conservative spokesmen. They just want a return to "normalcy"-and their
accustomed comforts-as soon as possible.
The System propagandists are
making a big thing out of our forced evacuation of non-Whites and our summary liquidation of race-
criminals and other
hostile and degenerate elements here. It's not having the desired effect, however, except among the liberals and
the
minorities. The bulk of the population is too preoccupied with its own problems at the moment to shed a tear for "the
victims of
racism."
The biggest fly in our ointment is northern
California. Things are completely out of control there. General Harding has really botched
the situation. It serves us
right for having anything to do with a conservative; he, like all the rest, was standing behind the door when
the brains
were passed out, and so he got a double dose of pigheadedness to make up for it. (Note to the reader: Turner is referring
to Lt. Gen. Arnold Harding, commander of Travis Air Force Base, which was located about halfway between San Francisco and
Sacramento. Harding's role in the Great Revolution, though important, lasted only 11 weeks; he was finally assassinated
by an
Organization team on September 16, 1993, after several earlier attempts failed.)
If the situation in the San Francisco-Sacramento area doesn't improve soon, we're likely to be involved in
a civil war against the
troops under Harding. The System would really love that. The only thing Harding has done right
so far was breaking with Washington
during the first week of our July 4 offensive, as soon as it became clear that the
System had lost its grip in California. On his own
initiative he declared an independent military government in northern
California and got nearly all the other officers in military units
stationed there (except our own undercover military
people, of course) to go along with him.
Revolutionary Command made the
strictly practical decision to let General Harding carry the ball in his area, and our people were
instructed not to
oppose him. This had the effect of substantially reducing our own losses, although the military has actually suffered
many
more casualties in northern California than in the south. This is because Harding has failed to take sufficiently radical
measures
to consolidate his authority and to deal with Black military personnel.
And he has failed utterly to get the civilian population under control-again, because he seems unable to understand
the necessity for
radical measures. The Jews and the other Bolshevik elements in San Francisco are running circles around
him, and the Chicanos in
the Sacramento area have been rioting more or less continuously for a month.
When a delegation of Organization people went to Harding last month and suggested a joint
Organization-military rule for northern
California, with Harding's forces handling defense matters and the Organization
handling civilian matters - including police functions-
Harding arrested them and has refused to release them. Since
then he has been issuing idiotic proclamations about "restoring the
Constitution," stamping out "communism
and pornography," and holding new elections to "re-establish the republican form of
government intended by
the Founding Fathers," whatever that means.
And he has denounced
our radical measures in the south as "communism." He is appalled that we didn't hold some sort of public
referendum
before expelling the non-Whites and that we didn't give individual trials to the Jews and race-criminals we dealt with
summarily.
Doesn't the old fool understand that the American people
voted themselves into the mess they're in now? Doesn't he understand that
the Jews have taken over the country fair and
square, according to the Constitution? Doesn't he understand that the common people
have already had their fling at self-government,
and they blew it?
Where does he think new elections can possibly lead
now, with this generation of TV-conditioned voters, except right back into the
same Jewish pigsty? And how does he think
we could have solved our problems down here, except by the radical measures we
used?
Doesn't Harding understand that the chaos in his area will continue to grow worse until he identifies the categories
of people
responsible for that chaos and deals with them categorically-that it is physically impossible, considering
the relative numbers involved,
for him to deal with the Jews, the Blacks, the Chicanos, and the other troublesome elements
on an individual basis?
Apparently not, because the idiot is still making
appeals to "responsible" Black leaders and to "patriotic" Jews to help him restore
order. Harding,
like conservatives in general, can't bring himself to do what must be done, because it would mean punishing the
"innocent" along with the "guilty," the "good" Negroes and the
"loyal" Jews along with the rest-as if those terms had any meaning in
the present context. And so, afraid of
treating individuals "unjustly," he is floundering around helplessly while everything goes to hell
and the
civilians in his area die like flies from starvation. Generals should be made of sterner stuff.
The one advantage to us from the situation in the north is the flood of White refugees it has brought us. More
people have been
coming into our area in the last two weeks to get away from the anarchy around San Francisco than have
been slipping through the
System's lines from the rest of the country.
And, while they last, it is interesting to have living, breathing examples of three types of social orders simultaneously
before us: in the
north, a conservative regime; to the east, liberal-Jewish democracy; and here, the beginning of a whole
new world rising out of the
ruins of the old.
August 23. Tomorrow
I leave for Washington again. I have been at Vandenberg for four days learning how nuclear warheads work. I
am in charge
of a group which will hand-carry four 60-kiloton warheads to Washington for concealment in key locations around the
capital.
Approximately 50 other men-all members of the Order-were trained with me, and each of
them has a similar mission as a group
leader. That means a total of about 200 warheads to be dispersed around the country
initially, with more to follow later.
All the warheads are identical;
they were removed from a stockpile of 240-mm artillery projectiles our people found here. They've
been slightly modified,
so they can be detonated by coded radio signals. They will be our insurance, in case we lose our missile-
launch facility
here.
The present mission is the hairiest one I've ever been assigned.
It will be a lot tougher than blowing up the FBI headquarters two
years ago. Five of us must make our way through 3,500
miles of enemy territory, carrying four nuclear bombs weighing a total of just
over 520 pounds, without getting caught.
Then we have to sneak them into areas that will be heavily guarded and conceal them, so
that there is a negligible chance
of their being found.
Aside from the dangers involved, which tie my guts
in knots whenever I think about them, I have mixed feelings about this mission.
On the one hand, I hate to leave California.
Being a participant in the birth of our new society hers has been tremendously exciting
and rewarding for me, and our
work is just beginning. New projects are being launched every day, and I want to be a part of them.
We are laying the
foundations here for the new social order which will serve our race for the next thousand years.
And to be able to live and work in a sane, healthy, White man's world-that is something which is beyond valuation
for me. These last
few weeks have been wonderful. It is terribly depressing to think of leaving this White oasis and
plunging once again into that
cesspool of mongrels and Blacks and Jews and sick, twisted White liberals out there.
On the other hand, it has been more than three months since I've seen Katherine, and it
seems like a year. The one thing which has
limited my enthusiasm about what we've accomplished here is that she hasn't
been able to share it with me. And now, with the
changed situation, she and the others in Washington are living under
much more difficult conditions and in greater danger than we
here in California. Realizing that makes me feel guilty
every day I remain.
The strongest feeling I have now, however is one
of responsibility. I am both proud and awed that I, still only a probationary member
of the Order, am being entrusted
with such an important and difficult task. I must try hard to put all other thoughts and feelings aside
until it is successfully
completed.
During the last four days I have not only learned about the
structure and functioning of the warheads for which I will be responsible,
but also why this mission is vital. That involved
A lesson in strategy which has been very sobering.
The people in Revolutionary
Command, with their eyes fixed firmly on our long-range goal of total victory over the System, have not
let themselves
be deluded by our gains in California and the present difficulties the System is facing elsewhere. The grim facts are
these:
First, outside of California the System remains essentially intact, and the disparity
in numbers between the System's forces and our
own is even worse than it was before July 4. Thatch because we've been
recklessly expending our strength everywhere else in the
country to keep the System off balance long enough for us to
consolidate our gains here.
Second, despite the military forces under
our control here, the System-as soon as it has tidied up some of its present military morale
problems-will be able to
pound us into the ground by conventional means with very little trouble. The only thing that's really kept them
off us
this long has been our threat of nuclear reprisal against New York and Tel Aviv.
Third, our nuclear threat is in grave danger of being neutralized. The System has the capability for launching a surprise
first strike
against us with a high probability of knocking out all our "hardened" launch silos before we can
fire our missiles. Revolutionary
Command's intelligence sources indicate that such a surprise strike is exactly what
is being planned. The System is holding off only
until it has finished an emergency military reorganization which will
give it confidence in the political reliability of the U.S. Army. It
wants
to follow up its destruction of our nuclear capability immediately with a massive invasion which will finish us off in a day
or two.
Worse, the System has an alternative plan which calls for the nuclear annihilation of all of southern California.
It will carry out that
plan if it fails to regain complete confidence in the reliability of its military ground forces
within the next couple of weeks.
We still don't know the System's exact
timetable, but we have reports that more than 25,000 of the wealthiest and most influential
Jews and their families have
quietly packed up and left the New York area within the last ten days, most of them taking 0 only a
moderate amount of
luggage with them-perhaps enough for a two- or three-week vacation.
Thus,
our entire strategy against the System has been undermined. If we could hold the enemy off indefinitely-or even for a year
or
two-with our threat of nuclear retaliation, then we could pull him down. With California as a training and supply
base, and with a
population of more than five million Whites to recruit from, we could steadily escalate our guerrilla
war throughout the rest of the
country. But without California we can't do it-and the System knows that.
So what we must do-immediately-is to disperse a large number of nuclear weapons outside
California. We will then detonate at least
one of those weapons to convince the System that a new situation exists. If
the System attacks California after that, we will be
obligated to detonate all or most of our dispersed weapons, in an
effort to destroy the System's capability for organized resistance.
Unfortunately,
much of the White population of the country is bound to be lost if we are forced to that extremity. The country will also
be open to the danger of invasion by other nations. A grim prospect, indeed.
Chapter XXV
September4, 1993. Although I've been in Washington nearly a week now, this is the first
opportunity I've had to write. After our hectic
trip across the country we spent several hectic days getting two of our
bombs planted. Then last night was the first uninterrupted night
I've had alone with Katherine since I've been back.
And tomorrow it's another bomb-planting mission. But tonight is for writing.
Our trip here from California was like something from a zany movie. Even though all the events are still fresh in my mind,
I can hardly
believe they really happened. Conditions in this country have changed so much in the last nine weeks that
it's as if we had used a
time machine to step into an entirely different era-an era in which all the old rules for coping
we spent a lifetime learning have been
changed. Fortunately for us, everyone else seems just as bewildered by the changes
as we are.
I was surprised at the ease with which we were able to leave
our enclave. The System's troops are all clumped together in just a few
border areas along the major highways, with additional
company-size groups stationed at roadblocks on the back roads. These back-
road troops are doing practically no patrolling,
and it is a simple and safe matter to bypass them-which accounts for the fact that so
many White volunteers have been
able to infiltrate into our area of California since July 4.
We took
an Army truck north to Bakersfield and then drove northeast another 20 miles, to within half a mile of a roadblock manned
by
Black troops. We could see them and they could see us, but they didn't try to give us any trouble as we pulled off
the main road onto
a rough Forest Service trail. We were already in the foothills of the Sierra range.
After about an hour of bouncing over the steep, barely passable mountain road, we pulled
back onto the highway again - safely
beyond the roadblock but now deep into System-controlled territory. We weren't especially
concerned about running into any
opposition in the mountains; we knew the largest concentration of System troops was
at China Lake, on the other side of the Sierras,
and we intended to turn north along Highway 39S before then. Our plan,
had we met a supply truck heading for the roadblock back
near Bakersfield, was simply to blast it off the narrow mountain
highway before its occupants realized we were "the enemy. " All five
of us kept our automatic rifles cocked
and ready and we had two rocket launchers besides, but we met no other vehicles.
We knew that, despite the unnatural absence of traffic in the mountains, we would certainly encounter heavy traffic when
we reached
39S, the main north-south highway east of the mountains. Our reconnaissance patrols hadn't been able to give
us anything but a very
generalized picture of troop dispositions that far east, and we had no idea what to expect in
the way of roadblocks or other controls
on vehicular traffic.
We
did know that fewer than 10 per cent of the System troops in the border area at that time were Whites, however. The System
was
gradually regaining confidence in some of its White troops, but it was still avoiding using them near the border,
where they might be
tempted to come over to our side. The few White military personnel in the area, even though confirmed
race-mixers, were regarded
with suspicion and treated with the contempt they deserved by the Blacks. Our spies had reported
several instances in which these
White renegades had been humiliated and abused by their Black fellow soldiers.
Considering this, we had decided that we would have a better chance as non-Whites of bluffing
our way past any challengers.
Accordingly, we had all applied a dark stain to our faces and hands and pinned Chicano-sounding
nametags on our fatigue uniforms.
We figured we could pass as mestizos-so long as we didn't run into any real Chicanos.
For four days I was "Jesus Garcia."
Our driver, "Corporal
Rodriguez," played his role to the hilt, giving a left-handed clenched-fist salute and flashing a toothy grin
whenever
we passed an idle group of Black soldiers along the highway and on the two occasions we were stopped at checkpoints.
We
also kept a transistor radio tuned to a Mexican station blaring soulful Chicano music whenever we were within earshot of System
troops.
Once, when we needed to refuel, we were briefly tempted to
pull in at a military gasoline depot, but the long line of waiting trucks and
the groups of Blacks lounging about made
us decide against the risk. We stopped instead at a roadside restaurant-curio shop-filling
station in the shadow of Mt.
Whitney. The place seemed deserted, so two of our men began filling our fuel tank at the gasoline pump,
while I and the
others headed for the restaurant to see if we could find any food to take along.
We found four soldiers inside, quite drunk, sitting around a table cluttered with empty bottles and glasses. Three were
Blacks and the
fourth was White. "Anybody around here we can pay for gas and some food?" I asked.
"No, man, just take what you want. We ran the honky owners
out of here three days ago," one of the Blacks responded.
"But not before we had some real fun with their daughter,
eh?" the White exclaimed, grinning and nudging one of his companions.
Perhaps it was the grim stare I gave him,
or perhaps he suddenly noticed "Corporal Rodriguez's" very blue eyes, or- it may have
been that the stain on
our faces had become too streaked from perspiration; in any event, the White soldier suddenly stopped
grinning and whispered
something to the Blacks. At the same time he leaned back and reached for his rifle, which was resting against
an adjacent
table.
Before he even touched his weapon, I pivoted my M16 off my shoulder
and raked the group at the table with a blast of fire which sent
them all sprawling to the floor, spurting blood. The
three Blacks were quite obviously dead, but their White-renegade companion,
though shot through the chest, raised himself
to a sitting position and asked in a plaintive voice, "Hey, man, what the shit?"
"Corporal Rodriguez"
finished him off. He pulled his bayonet from his belt scabbard, seized the dying White by his hair, and hauled
him off
the floor, the point of the bayonet jammed under his chin. "You piece of race-mixing filth! Go join your Black 'brothers'
! " And
with one, savage stroke "Rodriguez" practically decapitated him.
Five miles further down the highway, at the intersection where we wanted to turn east, a Military Police jeep
with two Blacks in it was
blocking the side road. A third Black was directing traffic, waving all north-bound military
vehicles on down the main highway. We
ignored his signals and turned right, going far out on the shoulder to get around
the jeep. The Black traffic controller blew his whistle
furiously, and all three MP's gesticulated and waved their arms
wildly at us, but our "Corporal Rodriguez" just grinned and gave his
Black-power salute, shouted, "Siesta
frijo/e! Hasta la vista!" and a few other Spanish words which came into his head, pointed
meaningfully down the
road ahead, and stepped on the accelerator. We left the Blacks in a shower of dust and gravel.
The Black with the whistle was still tooting and waving his arms as we went around the bend, and that was the
last we saw of him.
Apparently he and his companions did not think it worthwhile trying to follow us, but our three men
hidden in the back of the truck kept
their fingers on the triggers of their automatic rifles just in case.
From there until we got to the outskirts of St. Louis we didn't run into any more concentrations
of System troops. But we
accomplished that only by avoiding the major highways and cities and sticking to secondary roads.
We rattled and bounced across
the mountains and deserts of California, Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, and then the plains
of Kansas and the rolling hills of Missouri,
for 75 hours straight, stopping only to refuel and relieve ourselves. While
two of us rode in front and a third kept watch out the back of
the truck, two of us at a time tried to sleep, but without
much success.
When we reached eastern Missouri we changed our tactics,
for two reasons. First, we heard the radio broadcast of the bombing of
Miami and Charleston and the Organization's ultimatum
to the System. That made the time factor even more important than before;
we couldn't afford any further delays from
circuitous routes along back roads. Second, the danger of our being stopped by the
authorities between St. Louis and
Washington decreased sharply as all hell broke loose in the country, giving us the opportunity to
adopt a new ploy.
We had been monitoring both the civilian broadcast band and the military communications
bands during the trip, and we were about
80 miles west of St. Louis when a special announcer cut into the afternoon weather
report. The previous day, at noon, a nuclear
bomb had been detonated without warning in Miami Beach, the announcer said,
killing an estimated 60,000 people and causing
enormous damage. A second nuclear bomb had been detonated outside Charleston,
South Carolina, just four hours ago, but
casualty and damage reports were not yet available.
Both bombings were the work of the Organization, said the announcer, and he would now read the text of an Organization
ultimatum.
I jotted down the ultimatum almost word for word on a scrap of paper as it came over the truck radio, and
this is very nearly it:
"To the President and the Congress of the United States and the commanders of all U.S. armed
forces, we, the Revolutionary
Command of the Organization, issue the following demands and warning:
"First, cease immediately all buildup of military forces in eastern California and
adjacent areas and abandon all plans for an invasion
of the liberated zone of California. "Second, abandon all plans
for a nuclear strike against the liberated zone of California or any
portion of it.
"Third, make known to the people of the United States, through all the communications channels at your
disposal, these demands
and this warning.
"If you have failed
to comply with any one of our three demands by noon tomorrow, August 27, we will detonate a second nuclear
device in
some population center of the United States, just as we detonated one in the Miami, Florida, area a few minutes ago. We
will continue to detonate one nuclear device every 12 hours thereafter until you have complied.
"We furthermore warn you that if you make any surprise, hostile move against the liberated zone of California,
we will immediately
detonate more than 500 nuclear devices which have already
been hidden in key target areas throughout the United States. More than
40 of these devices are now located in the New
York City area. In addition, we will immediately use all the nuclear missiles still
available to us to destroy the Jewish
presence in Palestine.
"Finally, we warn you that, in any event,
we intend to liberate, first, the entire United States and then the remainder of this planet.
When we have done so we
will liquidate all the enemies of our people, including in particular all White persons who have consciously
aided those
enemies.
"We are aware now, and we will continue to be aware, of
your most confidential plans and of every order you receive from your
Jewish masters. Abandon your race-treason now,
or abandon all hope for yourselves when you fall into the hands of the people you
have betrayed."
(Note to the reader: Turner's version of the Organization's ultimatum is essentially correct,
except for a few minor errors in wording
and his omission of one sentence from the next-to-last paragraph. The full and
exact text of the ultimatum is in chapter nine of
Professor Anderson's definitive History of the Great Revolution.)
We had pulled off the road when the special announcer came on, and it took us a few minutes
to gather our thoughts and decide
what to do. We had not really expected things to develop so rapidly. Those fellows
who took the warheads to Miami and Charleston
must have either left a day or two ahead of us or they must have really
been burning up the highways to get there so soon. Despite
our non-stop driving, we felt like a bunch of shirkers.
We knew the fat was really in the fire; we were in the middle of a nuclear civil war,
and within the next few days the fate of the planet
would be decided for all time. Now it was either the Jews or the
White race, and everyone knew the game was for keeps.
I still haven't
figured out all the details of our strategy leading up to the ultimatum. I don't know why, for example, Miami and
Charleston
were chosen as initial targets-although I've heard a rumor that the rich Jews who were evacuated from New York were
being
temporarily housed in the Charleston area, and Miami, of course, already had a superabundance of Jews. But why not take out
the New York City area instead, with its two-and-a-half megakikes? Perhaps our bombs weren't really in place yet in New
York,
despite what our ultimatum said.
And I'm also not sure why
our ultimatum took the particular form it did: all stick and no carrot. Perhaps it was deliberately intended to
stampede
the cattle-which, indeed, it has. Or perhaps there were some under-the-table communications between Revolutionary
Command
and the System's military leaders which determined the form of the ultimatum. In any event, it has had the effect of splitting
the System right down the middle. The Jews and nearly all the politicians are in one faction, and nearly all the military
leaders are in
another faction.
The Jewish faction is demanding
the immediate nuclear annihilation of California, regardless of the consequences. The accursed
goyim have raised their
hands against the Chosen People and must be destroyed at any cost. The military faction, on the other hand,
is in favor
of a temporary truce, while an effort is made to find our "500 (a forgivable exaggeration) nuclear devices" and
disarm them.
After hearing that broadcast our only thought was to get
our deadly cargo to Washington as soon as possible. We knew everyone
would be off balance for a while as a result of
what had just happened, and we decided to take advantage of the general confusion by
converting our truck into an emergency
vehicle and barrelling straight down the highway toward our destination. We didn't have a
siren, but we did have flashing
red lights front and rear, and we completed the conversion a few minutes later by stopping in a rural
hardware store
and buying some cans of spray paint which, with some hastily improvised stencils made from torn newspapers, we
used to
paint Red Cross symbols in the appropriate places on our truck.
After
that, we made Washington in less than 20 hours, despite the chaotic conditions on the highways. We sped along shoulders to
get past stalled traffic, drove on the wrong side of the road with horn blaring and lights flashing, bounced over culverts
and open fields
to get around blocked intersections, and generally ignored all traffic controllers, bluffing our way
through more than a dozen
checkpoints.
Our first bomb went into
Fort Belvoir, the big Army base just south of Washington where I was locked up for more than a year. We
had to wait two
maddening days to make contact with our inside man there so we could arrange to get the bomb inside the base and
hidden
in the right area.
"Rodriguez" went over the fence with the
bomb strapped on his back. I received a radio signal from him the next day, confirming the
successful completion of his
mission. Meanwhile, the rest of us planted a second bomb in the District of Columbia, where it will be
able to take out
a couple of hundred thousand Blacks when it goes, not to mention a few government agencies and a critical portion
of
the capital's transportation network.
I didn't have my final orders on
the third bomb until this afternoon. That will go into the Silver Spring area north of here - the center of
the Maryland-suburban
Jewish community. The fourth one is intended for the Pentagon, but security is so tight there I still haven't
figured
a way to get it anywhere near the place.
I
must confess that my mind has not been exclusively on my work since I've been back here. Katherine and I have stolen time
from
our Organization responsibilities to be together. Neither of us had realized how much we have come to mean to each
other until we
were separated again this summer, so soon after my escape from prison. In the month we were together this
spring, before I was
sent to Texas and then to Colorado and finally to California, we became as close as any two people
can possibly be.
Things have been hard for Katherine and the others here
while I was gone, especially since July 4. They have been under enormous
pressure from two directions. The Organization
has been pushing them without mercy to continually step up their level of activism,
while the danger of being caught
by the political police has grown worse every week.
The System is resorting
to new methods in its fight against us: massive, house-to-house searches of multi-block areas; astronomical
rewards for
informers; much tighter controls on all civilian movement. In many other parts of the country these repressive measures
have been more sporadic, and they have broken down entirely in those areas where the System has not been able to maintain
public
order-especially since the panic caused by the bombings of Miami and Charleston. But around Washington the System
still has
things in a very tight grip, and it's tough.
Late this
afternoon Katherine and I slipped out of the shop for a couple of hours and went for a walk. We strolled by several groups
of
soldiers in sandbagged machine-gun emplacements outside office buildings; on past the smoke-blackened rubble of a
suburban
subway station in which Katherine herself had planted a dynamite bomb just two weeks ago; through a park-like
area where a
loudspeaker mounted high on a lamppost was blaring out exhortations to "all right-thinking citizens"
to immediately report to the
political police the slightest manifestation of racism on the part of their neighbors or
co-workers; and out onto one of the main highway
bridges across the Potomac River from Virginia to the District of Columbia.
There was no traffic on the bridge because it ended
abruptly 50 yards from the Virginia shore, in a tangle of shattered
concrete and twisted reinforcing rods. The Organization had blown
it up in July, and no effort had yet been made to repair
it.
It was fairly quiet there at the end of the bridge, with only the
screaming of police sirens in the distance and the occasional clatter of a
police helicopter swooping overhead. We talked,
we embraced, and we silently surveyed the scene around us as the sun went down.
We and our companions have certainly
made an influence on the world in the last few months-both on the suburban world of ordinary
White people on the Virginia
side of the bridge and on the System's world of bustling government offices on the other side. And yet
the System is
all too evidently still alive all around us. What a contrast with the situation in California!
Katherine was full of questions about what life is like in the liberated zone, and I tried to tell her as best
I could, but I am afraid that
mere words are inadequate for expressing the difference between the way I felt in California
and the way I feel here. It is more a
spiritual thing than merely a difference in the political and social environments.
As we stood there talking above the swirling eddies at the end of the bridge, our bodies
pressed together, the world growing dark
around us, a group of young Negroes came out onto the other stump of the bridge,
from the Washington side. They began horsing
around in typical Negro fashion, a couple of them urinating into the river.
Finally one of them spotted us, and they all began shouting
and making obscene gestures. For me, at least, that accentuated
the difference which I could not find words to express.
Chapter XXVI
September 18, 1993. So much has happened, so much has been lost in these last two weeks, I can hardly force
myself to begin
writing about it. I am alive and in good health, yet there are moments when I envy the tens of millions
who have died in recent days.
My soul has dried up inside me; I am like a walking dead man.
All that I have been able to think about-all that has been running through my mind, over and over again-is
the single, overwhelming
fact: Katherine is gone! Before today, when I was not absolutely certain of her fate, that fact
tormented me and gave me no rest. Now
that I know she is dead, however, the torment is gone, and I merely feel a great
emptiness, an irreplaceable loss.
There is important work for me to do,
and I know that I must now put the past out of my mind and get on with it. But tonight I must
record my memories, my
thoughts. In the chaos of these days, millions perish without leaving a ripple behind-they will be forever
unremembered,
forever nameless-but I can at least commit to these flimsy pages my memory of Katherine and the events which she
and
our other comrades have helped to shape and hope that my diary outlives me. That, at least, we owe to our dead, to our martyrs:
that we do not forget them or their deeds.
It was September 7, a Wednesday,
that I finished installing our third bomb. I and two other members of our bomb team picked it up
Monday from the hiding
place where the last warhead is still stashed, and we took it to Maryland. I had already pinpointed the
location where
I wanted to install it, but troop movements were so heavy that week throughout the Washington area that we had to
wait
in Maryland nearly three days for an opportunity to approach the target location.
Civilian vehicular traffic has long been quite encumbered in the Washington area by roadblocks, restricted sections of many
roads,
inspection points, and so on, but that week it had become almost impossible. On the way back to our printing shop-headquarters,
the
roads were congested by long streams of civilian vehicles, all going in the opposite direction and piled high with
household
belongings lashed to doors, hoods, and roofs. Then, about half a mile from the shop, I ran into a new military
roadblock, which hadn't
been there when I left. Coils of barbed wire were strung across the road, and a tank was parked
behind the barbed wire.
I turned around and tried another street; it
was blocked also. I shouted across the barrier to a soldier, telling him where I was headed
and asking him what unblocked
street I could take to get there. "You can't go there at all," he shouted back. "This is a security area.
Everyone was evacuated this morning. Any civilian spotted inside the perimeter will be
shot on sight."
I was stunned. What had happened to Katherine and the others?
Apparently the military authorities had suddenly extended the radius of the security area around the Pentagon
from its former two
miles to three miles without warning. Our shop had been a safe halfmile outside the former perimeter,
and it had never occurred to us
that it would be extended. But it had been, evidently to keep the Organization from planting
a nuclear bomb close enough to take out
the Pentagon. Actually, I considered the former perimeter adequate protection
from our 60-kiloton warheads, since the Pentagon was
long ago equipped with blast shutters over all windows and surrounded
by reinforced-concrete blast deflectors. I'd been trying without
success to figure how to get a bomb inside that perimeter
since I arrived back in Washington from California.
I drove to our unit's
emergency rendezvous point a few miles south of Alexandria, but there was no one there and no message for
me. I had no
way to contact Washington Field Command to find out where Katherine, Bill, and Carol were, because all our
communications
equipment was in the shop. But the fact they weren't at the rendezvous point made me almost certain that they had
been
arrested.
It was already past midnight, but I immediately headed north
again, toward the area where the evacuees I had passed earlier were
bound. I thought I might find out from someone who
had lived in the vicinity of our shop what had happened to my comrades. It was a
foolishly dangerous thought, born of
my sense of desperation, and I was probably fortunate that a military truck convoy had the
highway so thoroughly blocked
that I was finally obliged to pull off the road and sleep until morning.
When I finally did reach the refugee area later that day, I soon realized that the chance of obtaining the information I
sought was very
slim. A sea of army tents had been erected in a huge, suburban supermarket parking lot and in an adjacent
field. Around the edge of
the encampment was a jam-packed mass of outdoor chemical toilets, civilian vehicles still piled
high with household goods, refugees,
and soldiers.
I wandered through the milling throng for nearly three hours and saw no familiar faces. I tried questioning a few
people at random, but
I got nowhere. People were frightened and gave me only evasive answers or none at all. They were
miserable and bewildered, but
they wanted no more trouble than they already had, and questions about arrests they might
have witnessed spelled trouble to them.
As I passed one tent about twice as large as the others, I heard muffled screams
and hysterical sobbing coming from inside,
interspersed with loud, coarse, masculine laughter and banter. A dozen Black
soldiers were lined up at the entrance.
I stopped to find out what was
happening, just as two grinning Black soldiers forced their way through the throng in front of the tent
and went inside,
dragging a terrified, sobbing White girl about 14 years old between them. The raping queue moved forward another
space.
I ran over to a White officer wearing a major's insignia who was standing only about 50
yards away. I began angrily protesting what
was happening, but before I had finished my first sentence the officer turned
shamefacedly away from me and hurried off in the
opposite direction. Two White soldiers nearby cast their eyes downward
and disappeared between two tents. No one wanted to be
suspected of "racism." I fought down a nearly overpowering
impulse to draw my pistol and begin shooting everyone in sight, and then
left.
I drove to the one place I was reasonably sure was still manned by Organization personnel: the old gift shop
in Georgetown. It was
just outside the new Pentagon security perimeter. I arrived there as dusk was falling and pulled
the pickup truck around to the rear
service entrance.
I had just
climbed out of the truck and stepped into the shadows at the rear of the building when the world around me suddenly lit up
as bright as noon for a moment. First there was an intensely bright flash of light, then a weaker glow which cast moving
shadows and
changed from white to yellow to red in the course of a few seconds.
I ran to the alley, so that I could have a more nearly unobstructed view of the sky. What I saw chilled my
blood and caused the hairs
on the back of my neck to rise. An enormous, bulbous, glowing thing, a splotchy ruby-red in
color for the most part but shot through
with dark streaks and also dappled with a shifting pattern of brighter orange
and yellow areas, was rising into the northern sky and
casting its ominous, blood-red light over the land below. It was
truly a vision from hell.
As I watched, the gigantic fireball continued
to expand and rise, and a dark column, like the stem of an immense toadstool, became
visible beneath it. Bright, electric-blue
tongues of fire could be seen flickering and dancing over the surface of the column. They were
huge lightning bolts,
but at their distance no thunder could be heard from them. When the noise finally came, it was a dull, muffled
sound,
yet still overwhelming: the sort of sound one might expect to hear if an inconceivably powerful earthquake rocked a huge city
and caused a thousand 100-story skyscrapers to crumble into ruins simultaneously.
I realized that I was witnessing the annihilation of the city of Baltimore, 35 miles away, but I could not
understand the enormous
magnitude of the blast. Could one of our 60-kiloton bombs have done that? It seemed more like
what one would expect from a
megaton bomb.
The government news reports
that night and the next day claimed that the warhead which destroyed Baltimore, killing more than a
million people, as
well as the blasts which destroyed some two-dozen other major American cities the same day, had been set off by
us. They
also claimed that the government had counterattacked and destroyed the "nest of racist vipers" in California. As
it turned
out, both claims were false, but it was two days before I learned the full story of what had actually happened.
Meanwhile, it was with a feeling of deepest despair that I and half-a-dozen others who
were gathered around the television set in the
darkened basement of the gift shop late that night heard a newscaster
gloatingly announce the destruction of our liberated zone in
California. He was a Jew, and he really let his emotions
carry him away; I have never before heard or seen anything like it.
After a solemn rundown of most of the cities which
had been hit that day, with preliminary estimates of the death tolls (sample: ". . .
and in Detroit, which the racist
fiends struck with two of their missiles, they murdered over 1.4 million innocent American men,
women, and children of
all races . . ."), he came to New York. At that point tears actually appeared in his eyes and his voice broke.
Between sobs he gasped out the news that 18 separate nuclear blasts had leveled Manhattan
and the surrounding boroughs and
suburbs out to a radius of approximately 20 miles, with an estimated 14 million killed
outright and perhaps another five million
expected to die of burns or radiation sickness within the next few days. Then
he lapsed into Hebrew and began a strange, wailing
chant, as tears streamed down his cheeks and his clenched fists pounded
his breast.
After a few seconds of this he recovered, and his demeanor
changed completely. Anguish was replaced first by a burning hatred for
those who had destroyed his beloved, Jewish New
York City, then by an expression of grim satisfaction which gradually turned into
an exultant gloating: "But we
have taken our vengeance against our enemies, and they are no more. Time and again, throughout
history, the nations have
risen up against us and tried to expel us or kill us, but we have always triumphed in the end. No one can
resist us.
All those who have tried-Egypt, Persia, Rome, Spain, Russia, Germany - have themselves been destroyed, and we have
always
emerged triumphant from the ruins. We have always survived and prospered. And now we have utterly crushed the latest of
those who have raised their hands against us. Just as Moshe smote the Egyptian, so have we smitten the Organization.
"His tongue flickered wetly over his lips and his dark
eyes gleamed balefully as he described the hail of nuclear annihilation which he
said had been unleashed on California
that very afternoon: "Their precious racial superiority did not help them a bit when we fired
hundreds of nuclear
missiles into the racist stronghold," the newscaster gloated. "The White vermin died like flies. We can only hope
they realized in their last moments that many of the loyal soldiers who pressed the firing buttons for the missiles which
killed them
were Black or Chicano or Jewish. Yes, the Whites and their criminal racial pride have been wiped out in California,
but now we must
kill the racists everywhere else, so that racial harmony and brotherhood can be restored to America.
We must kill them! Kill them! Kill!
Kill! . . ."
Then he lapsed
into Hebrew again, and his voice became louder and harsher. He stood up and leaned into the camera, an
incarnation of
pure hatred, as he shrieked and gibbeted in his alien tongue, gobs of saliva flying from his mouth and dribbling down
his
chin.
This extraordinary performance must have been embarrassing to some
of his less emotional brethren, because he was suddenly cut
off in mid-shriek and replaced by a Gentile, who continued
to give out revised casualty estimates into the early hours of the morning.
Gradually, during the next 48 hours, we learned
the true story of that dreadful Thursday, both from later and more nearly accurate
government newscasts and from our
own sources. The first and most important news we received came early Friday morning, in a
coded message from Revolutionary
Command to all the Organization's units around the country: California had not been destroyed!
Vandenberg had been annihilated,
and two large missiles had struck the city of Los Angeles, causing widespread death and
destruction, but at least 90
per cent of the people in the, liberated zone had survived, partly because they had been given a few
minutes advance
warning and had been able to take shelter.
Unfortunately for the people
in other parts of the country, there was no advance warning, and the total death toll - including those who
have died
of burns, other wounds, and radiation in the last 10 days-is approximately 60 million. The missiles which caused these
deaths, however, were not ours - except in the case of New York City, which received a barrage first from Vandenberg and
then from
the Soviet Union.
Baltimore, Detroit, and the other American
cities which were hit-even Los Angeles-were all the victims of Soviet missiles. Vandenberg
AFB was the only domestic
target hit by the U.S. government. ?
The cataclysmic chain of events
began with an extraordinarily painful decision by Revolutionary Command. Reports being received
by RC in the first week
of this month indicated a gradual but steady shift of the balance of power from the military faction in the
government,
which wanted to avoid a nuclear showdown with us, to the Jewish faction, which demanded the immediate annihilation
of
California. The Jews feared that otherwise the existing stalemate between the liberated zone and the rest of the country might
become permanent, which would mean an almost certain victory for us eventually.
To prevent this they went to work behind the scenes in their customary manner, arguing, threatening, bribing, bringing pressure
to
bear on one of their opponents at a time. They had already succeeded in arranging the replacement of several top generals
by their
own creatures, and RC saw the last chance disappearing of avoiding a full-scale exchange of nuclear missiles
with government
forces.
So we decided to preempt. We struck first,
but not at the government's forces. We fired all our missiles from Vandenberg (except for
half-a-dozen targeted on New
York) at two targets: Israel and the Soviet Union. As soon as our missiles had been; launched, RC
announced the news
to the Pentagon via a direct telephone link. The Pentagon, of course, had immediate confirmation from its own
radar screens,
and it had no choice but to follow up our salvo with an immediate and full-scale nuclear attack of its own against the
Soviet Union, in an attempt to knock out as much of the Soviet retaliatory potential as possible.
The Soviet response was horrendous, but spotty. They fired everything they had left at us, but it simply wasn't
enough. Several of the
largest American cities, including Washington and Chicago, were spared.
What the Organization accomplished by precipitating this fateful chain of events is fourfold: First, by hitting
New York and Israel, we
have completely knocked out two of world Jewry's principal nerve centers, and it should take
them a while to establish a new chain of
command and get their act back together.
Second, by forcing them to take a decisive action, we pushed the balance of power in the U.S. government solidly
back toward the
military leaders. For all practical purposes, the country is now under a military government.
Third, by provoking a Soviet counterattack, we did far more to disrupt the System in this
country and break up the orderly pattern of
life of the masses than we could have done by using our own weapons against
domestic targets-and we still have most of our 60-
kiloton warheads left! That will be of enormous advantage to us in
the days ahead.
Fourth, we have eliminated a major specter which had
been hanging over our plans before: the specter of Soviet intervention after we
and the System had fought it out with
each other.
We took an enormous chance, of
course: first, that California I would be devastated in the Soviet counterattack- and second, that the
U.S. military
would lose its cool and use its nuclear weaponry on California even though, except for Vandenberg, there was no
nuclear
threat there to be knocked out. In both cases the fortunes of war have been at least moderately kind to us-although the threat
from the U.S. military is by no means over.
What we lost, however,
is substantial: about an eighth of the Organization's members, and nearly a fifth of the White population of the
country-not
to mention an unknown number of millions of racial kinsmen in the Soviet Union. Fortunately, the heaviest death toll in
this country has been in the largest cities, which are substantially non-White.
All in all, the strategic situation of the Organization relative to the System is enormously improved, and that is what
really counts. We
are willing to take as many casualties as necessary- just so the System takes proportionately more.
All that matters, in the long run, is
that when the smoke has finally cleared the last battalion in the field is ours.
Today I finally located Bill and found out what happened back in the print shop during
the evacuation. He has also suffered a grievous
personal loss, and his story was brief but poignant.
The evacuation of the expanded Pentagon security area had been carried out with no warning
whatever. At about eleven in the
morning of September 7 tanks had suddenly appeared in the streets and soldiers had begun
knocking on all doors, giving occupants
only ten minutes to abandon their dwellings. They were very rough on anyone who
did not move fast enough.
Bill, Carol, and Katherine were running propaganda
leaflets on the press when the tanks came, and they had just enough time to hide
the incriminating evidence under a tarpaulin
before four Black soldiers pushed their way into the shop. Since the troops weren't taking
time to search buildings,
presumably everything would have gone smoothly at the shop had not one of the Blacks made a suggestive
remark to Katherine
as she was hastily packing some of her clothing and other personal items.
Katherine said nothing to the Black, but the icy look she gave him apparently injured his sense of "human dignity."
He began the
whining, "what's a matter, baby, don' you like Black people?" approach that Blacks have found
works wonders with guilt-ridden, liberal
White girls who are desperately afraid of being considered "racists"
if they reject the unwelcome advances of rutting Black bucks.
When Katherine tried to get out the shop door carrying
two heavy suitcases, the amorous Black blocked her way and tried to run his
hand under her dress.
She jumped back and gave the Black a well-placed kick in the groin, which immediately cooled his ardor, but
it was too late: he had
felt Katherine's thigh holster. He shouted the warning to his companions, and both sides began
shooting at the same time. While
Katherine and Carol fired their pistols, Bill blazed away at the Black soldiers with
a sawed-off, autoloading shotgun.
All four Blacks were mortally wounded,
but not before they had in turn wounded each of the three Whites. One of the Blacks
staggered out of the shop before
he collapsed, and Bill, who was least seriously hit, had only a moment to ascertain that Katherine
was beyond all help
before he and Carol were forced to flee out the rear of the shop.
They
holed up in the attic of an adjoining building, and searchers were unable to find them. Carol soon became so weak from her
wounds that she was unable to move, and Bill was not in much better condition. The night of the following day he crept painfully
from
their hiding place and stealthily rounded up drinking water, food, and a few medical supplies from the empty buildings
in the
neighborhood before returning to his wife.
Carol died on
the fourth day, and it was another five days before Bill had regained sufficient strength to leave the attic again and
make his way out of the security area.
I know that Bill would never
lie to me, and so I have at least the consolation of knowing that Katherine did not fall into the hands of the
enemy
alive. What I must do now is devote whatever time I have left to the task of insuring that she has not died in vain.
Chapter XXVII
October 28, 1993. Just back from more than a
month in Baltimore-what's left of it. I and four others from here hauled a batch of
portable radioactivity-metering equipment
up to Silver Spring, where we linked up with a Maryland unit and continued north to the
vicinity of Baltimore. Since
the main roads were totally impassable, we had to walk across country more than halfway,
commandeering a truck for only
the last dozen miles.
Although more than two weeks had passed since the
bombing, the state of affairs around Baltimore was almost indescribably chaotic
when we arrived. We didn't even try to
go into the burned out core of the city, but even in the suburbs and countryside 10 miles west
of ground zero, half the
buildings had burned. Even the secondary roads in and around the suburbs were littered with the burned
hulks of vehicles,
and nearly everyone we encountered was on foot.
Groups of scavengers
were everywhere, poking through ruined stores, foraging in the fields with backpacks, carrying bundles of
looted or salvaged
goods-mostly food, but also clothing, building materials, and everything else imaginable-to and fro like an army of
ants.
And the corpses! They were another good reason for staying away from the roads as much
as possible. Even in the areas where
relatively few people were killed by the initial blast or by subsequent radiation
sickness, the corpses were strewn along the roads by
the thousands. They were nearly all refugees from the blast area.
Close to the city one saw the bodies of those who had been badly burned by the fireball;
most of them had not been able to walk
more than a mile or so before they collapsed. Further out were those who had been
less seriously burned. And far out into the
countryside were the corpses of those who had succumbed to radiation days
or weeks later. All had been left to rot where they fell,
except in those few areas where the military had restored a
semblance of order.
We had at that time only about 40 Organization members
among the survivors in the Baltimore area. They had been engaged in
sabotage, sniping, and other guerrilla efforts against
the police and military personnel there during the first week after the blast. Then
they gradually discovered that the
rules of the game had changed.
They found out that it was no longer necessary
to operate as furtively as they had before. The System's troops returned their fire
when attacked, but did not pursue
them. Outside a few areas, the police no longer attempted to undertake systematic searches of
persons and vehicles, and
there were no house raids. The attitude almost seemed to be, "Don't bother us, and we won't bother you."
The civilian survivors also tended to take a much more nearly neutral attitude than before.
There was fear of the Organization, but
very little overt expression of hostility. The people did not know whether we
were the ones who had fired the missile which destroyed
their city, as the System broadcasts claimed, but they seemed
about as disposed to blame the System for letting it happen as us for
doing it.
The holocaust through which the people up there had passed had clearly convinced them quite thoroughly of one
thing: the System
could no longer guarantee their security. They no longer had even a trace of confidence in the old
order; they merely wanted to
survive now, and they would turn to anyone who could help them stay alive a while longer.
Sensing this changed attitude, our members had begun recruiting and organizing among the
survivors around Baltimore in semi-
public fashion and meeting with sufficient success that Revolutionary Command authorized
the attempt to establish a small liberated
zone west of the city.
The 11 of us who had come up from the Washington suburbs to help pitched in with enthusiasm, and within a few days we had
established a reasonably defensible perimeter enclosing about 2,000 houses and other buildings with a total of nearly 12,000
occupants. My principal function was to carry out a radiological survey of the soil, the buildings, the local vegetation,
and the water
sources in the area, so that we could be sure of freedom from dangerous levels of nuclear radiation resulting
from fallout.
We organized about 300 of the locals into a fairly effective
militia and provided them with arms. It would be risky at this stage to try to
arm a bigger militia than that, because
we haven't had an opportunity to ideologically condition the local population to the extent we'd
like, and they still
require close observation and tight supervision. But we picked the best prospects among the able-bodied males in
the enclave, and we do have quite a bit of experience in picking people. I'll not be surprised
if half our new militiamen eventually
graduate to membership in the Organization, and some will probably even be admitted
to the Order.
Yes, I think that, by and large, we can count on our new
recruits. There's still a great deal of basically sound human material left in
this country, despite the widespread moral
corruption. After all, that corruption has been produced largely by the instilling of an alien
ideology and an alien
set of values in a people disoriented by an unnatural and spiritually unhealthy life-style. The hell they're going
through
now is at least knocking some of the foolishness out of them and leaving them quite a bit more receptive to a correct world
view than they were before.
Our first task was to weed out and eliminate
the alien elements and the race criminals from the new enclave. It's astounding how
many dark, kinky-haired Middle Easterners
have invaded this country in the last decade. I believe they have taken over every
restaurant and hot dog stand in Maryland.
We must have shot at least a dozen Iranians, just in our little suburban enclave, and twice
that many escaped when they
realized what was happening.
Then we formed the people into labor brigades
to carry out a number of necessary functions, one of which was the sanitary disposal
of the hundreds of corpses of refugees.
The majority of these poor creatures were White, and I overheard one of our members refer
to what happened to them as
"a slaughter of the innocents."
I am not sure that is a correct
description of the recent holocaust. I am sorry, of course, for the millions of White people, both here
and in Russia,
who died-and who have yet to die before we have finished-in this war to rid ourselves of the Jewish yoke. But
innocents?
I think not. Certainly, that term should not be applied to the majority of the adults.
After all, is not man essentially responsible for his condition- at least, in a collective sense? If the White
nations of the world had not
allowed themselves to become subject to the Jew, to Jewish ideas, to the Jewish spirit,
this war would not be necessary. We can
hardly consider ourselves blameless. We can hardly say we had no choice, no chance
to avoid the Jew's snare. We can hardly say
we were not warned.
Men
of wisdom, integrity, and courage have warned us over and over again of the consequences of our folly. And even after we were
well down the Jewish primrose path, we had chance after chance to save ourselves-most recently 52 years ago, when the Germans
and the Jews were locked in struggle for the mastery of central and eastern Europe.
We ended up on the Jewish side in that struggle, primarily because we had chosen corrupt men as our leaders.
And we had chosen
corrupt leaders because we valued the wrong things in life. We had chosen leaders who promised us something
for nothing; who
pandered to our weaknesses and vices; who had nice stage personalities and pleasant smiles, but who
were without character or
scruple. We ignored the really important issues in our national life and gave free rein to
a criminal System to conduct the affairs of our
nation as it saw fit, so long as it kept us moderately well-supplied
with bread and circuses.
And are not folly, willful ignorance, laziness,
greed, irresponsibility, and moral timidity as blameworthy as the most deliberate malice?
Are not all our sins of omission
to be counted against us as heavily as the Jew's sins of commission against him? In the Creator's
account book, that
is the way things are reckoned. Nature does not accept "good" excuses in lieu of performance. No race which
neglects
to insure its own survival, when the means for that survival are at hand, can be judged "innocent," nor can the
penalty
exacted against it be considered unjust, no matter how severe.
Immediately after our success in California this summer, in my dealings with the civilian population there I had it thoroughly
impressed
on me why the American people do not deserve to be considered "innocents." Their reaction to the
civil strife there was based almost
solely on the way it affected their own private circumstances. For the first day
or two-before it dawned on most people that we might
actually win-the White civilians, even racially conscious ones,
were generally hostile; we were messing up their life-style and making
their customary pursuit of pleasure terribly inconvenient.
Then, after they learned to fear us, they were all too eager to please us. But they weren't
really interested in the rights and wrongs of
the struggle; they couldn't be bothered with soul-searching and long-range
considerations. Their attitude was: "Just tell us what we're
supposed to believe, and we'll believe it." They
just wanted to be safe and comfortable again as soon as possible. And they weren't
being cynical; they weren't jaded
sophisticates, but ordinary people.
The fact is that the ordinary people
are not really much less culpable than the not-so-ordinary people, than the pillars of the System.
Take the political
police, as an example. Most of them- the White ones-are not especially evil men. They serve evil masters, but they
rationalize
what they do; they justify it to themselves, some in patriotic terms ("protecting our free and democratic way of life")
and
some in religious or ideological terms ("upholding Christian ideals of equality and justice").
One can call them hypocrites-one can point out that they deliberately avoid thinking about
anything which might call into question the
validity of the shallow catch-phrases with which they justify themselves-but
is not everyone who has tolerated the System also a
hypocrite, whether he actively supported it or not? Is not everyone
who mindlessly parrots the same catch-phrases, refusing to
examine their implications and contradictions, whether he
uses them as justifications for his deeds or not, also to be blamed?
I
cannot think of any segment of White society, from the Maryland red-necks and their families whose radioactive bodies we
bulldozed into a huge pit a few days ago to the university professors we strung up in Los Angeles last July, which can truly
claim that
it did not deserve what happened to it. It was not so many months
ago that nearly all those who are wandering homeless and
bemoaning their fate today were talking from the other side
of their mouths.
Not a few of our people have been badly roughed up in
the past-and two that I know of were killed-when they fell into the hands of
red-necks - "good ol' boys" who,
although not liberals or shabbos goyim in any way, had no use for "radicals" who wanted to
"overthrow
the gummint." In their case it was sheer ignorance.
But ignorance
of that sort is no more excusable than the bleating, sheep like liberalism of the pseudo-intellectuals who have smugly
promoted Jewish ideology for so many years; or than the selfishness and cowardice of the great American middle class who
went
along for the ride, complaining only when their pocketbooks suffered.
No, talk of "innocents" has no meaning. We must look at our situation collectively, in a race-wide sense. We must
understand that our
race is like a cancer patient undergoing drastic surgery in order to save his life. There is no sense
in asking whether the tissue being
cut out now is "innocent" or not. That is no more reasonable than trying
to distinguish the "good" Jews from the bad ones-or, as some
of our thicker-skulled "good ol' boys"
still insist on trying, separating the "good niggers" from the rest of their race.
The fact is that we are all responsible, as individuals, for the morals and the behavior of our race as a whole.
There is no evading that
responsibility, in the long run, any more for the members of our own race than for those of
other races, and each of us individually
must be prepared to be called to account for that responsibility at any time.
In these days many are being called.
But the enemy is also paying a price.
He's still got a grip on things here, more or less, but he's just about finished outside North
America. Although the
government is blocking most of the foreign news from the networks here, we have been receiving clandestine
reports from
our overseas units and also monitoring the European news broadcasts.
Within
24 hours after we hit Tel Aviv and half-a-dozen other Israeli targets last month, hundreds of thousands of Arabs were
swarming
across the borders of occupied Palestine. Most of them were civilians, armed only with knives or clubs, and Jewish border
guards mowed down thousands of them, until their ammunition was exhausted. The Arabs' hatred, pent up for 45 years, drove
them
on-across mine fields, through Jewish machine-gun fire, and into the radioactive chaos of burning cities, their
single thought being to
slay the people who had stolen their land, killed their fathers, and humiliated them for two
generations. Within a week the throat of the
last Jewish survivor in the last kibbutz and in the last, smoking ruin in
Tel Aviv had been cut.
News from the Soviet Union is very scanty, but
the reports are that the Russian survivors have dealt with the Jews there in much the
same way. In the ruins of Moscow
and Leningrad during the first few days the people rounded up all the Jews they could get their
hands on and hurled them
into burning buildings or onto burning heaps of debris.
And anti-Jewish
riots have broken out in London, Paris, Brussels, Rotterdam, Bucharest, Buenos Aires, Johannesburg, and Sydney.
The governments
of France and the Netherlands, both rotten to the core with Jewish corruption, have fallen, and the people are
settling
scores in the towns and villages throughout those countries.
It's the
sort of thing which happened time after time during the Middle Ages, of course-every time the people had finally had her fill
of
the Jews and their tricks. Unfortunately, they never finished the job, and they won't this time either. I'm sure the
Jews are already
making their plans for a comeback, as soon as the people have calmed down and forgotten. The people
have such short memories.
But we won't forget! That alone is enough to
insure that history will not repeat itself. No matter how long it takes us and no matter to
what lengths we must go,
we'll demand a final settlement of the account between our two races. If the Organization survives this
contest, no Jew
will-anywhere. We'll go to the uttermost ends of the earth to hunt down the last of Satan's spawn.
The organizational principles we are using in Maryland are a bit different from those used in California, because
the situations are
different. Here, unlike southern California, there are neither natural, geographical barriers nor
a ring of government troops to separate
our enclave from its surroundings.
Of course, we did what we could to make up for this lack. We chose a perimeter, in the first place, which follows natural
gaps in the
pattern of man-made structures-although, for nearly half a mile the gap is only the 100-yard width of a highway
right-of-way, with the
System's troops controlling the other side. We plugged some open areas with barbed wire and mines,
and we torched buildings and
brush outside the enclave which might provide concealment or cover for snipers or hostile
troop concentrations .
But if the people in our enclave want to leave,
there is really no way our militia can stop more than a few of them. We are depending
on three things, much more than
the fear of being shot, to hold them. First, we have given the people order, and we are doing a
substantially better
job of maintaining the order inside our enclave than the government is doing outside it. After the dose of chaos
these
people have swallowed, all but the most brainwashed "do your own thing" types are hungry for authority and discipline.
Second, we are well on the way to establishing a subsistence economy in the enclave. We
have a large water storage tank, which we
should be able to keep full just by pumping groundwater from already-existing
wells; there are two substantially intact food
warehouses and a nearly full grain silo; and there are four working farms-including
one dairy farm- with almost enough production
capacity to feed half our people. We are making up our present food deficit
by raiding outside the enclave, but by the time we've put
everyone to work
converting every arable patch of ground to vegetable gardens, that shouldn't be necessary.
Last, and perhaps not least, everyone in the enclave is indisputably White-we dealt summarily with every questionable
case -while
outside it is the usual godawful assortment of Whites, mostly Whites, half-Whites, Gypsies, Chicanos, Puerto
Ricans, Jews, Blacks,
Orientals, Arabs, Persians, and everything else under the sun: the typical, cosmopolitan racial
goulash one finds in every American
metropolitan area these days. Anyone who feels a need for a little "brotherhood,"
Jewish style, can leave our enclave. I doubt that
many will feel the need.
November 2. We had a long meeting this afternoon at which we were briefed on the latest national developments and given
new
priorities for our local action program.
There has been remarkably
little change in the national situation during the past six weeks: the government has been able to do very
little to
restore order in the devastated areas or to compensate for the damage done to the nation's transportation network, its power
generating and distribution facilities, and the other essential components of the national economy. The people are being
left on their
own to a very large extent, while the System grapples with its own problems, not the least of which is
its renewed uncertainty over the
reliability of its military forces.
That lack of change is, in itself, very encouraging, because it means that the System is not recovering the degree of control
over the
country which it exercised prior to September 8. The government has simply not been able to cope with the chaotic
conditions which
now prevail throughout wide areas.
Our units have
been doing everything they can in the way of sabotage, of course, just for the purpose of keeping things destabilized.
But Revolutionary Command has apparently been waiting to see what sort of intermediate-term situation would gel before deciding
the next phase of the Organization's strategy.
The decision has now
been made, and it is for us to begin doing in many other places the sort of thing we did in Maryland last month.
We will
be shifting a large part of the emphasis of our struggle from guerrilla actions to public and semi-public organizing. That
is
exciting news: it means a new escalation of our offensive-an escalation which is only being undertaken because of
our confidence
that the tide of battle is now running in our favor!
But the old phase of the fight is by no means over, and one of the most worrisome dangers we are facing is a large-scale
military
assault on California. Government forces are now undergoing a rapid buildup in the southern California area,
and an invasion of the
liberated zone seems imminent. If the System succeeds in California, then it will certainly move
similarly against Baltimore and any
other enclaves we may establish in the future, despite our threats of nuclear retaliation.
The problem seems to be a clique of conservative generals m the Pentagon who see us more
as a threat to their own authority than
to the System itself. They have no love for the Jews and are not particularly
unhappy with the present state of affairs, in which they
are the de facto rulers of the country. What they would like
is to permanently institutionalize the present state of martial law and then
gradually restore order, bringing about
a new status quo based on their rather reactionary and shortsighted ideas.
We, of course, are the fly in their ointment, and they are moving to squash us. What makes them especially dangerous to
us is that
they are not as afraid of our nuclear-reprisal capability as their predecessors were. They know we can destroy
more cities and kill a
lot more civilians, but they don't think we can kill them.
I conferred privately with Major Williams of Washington Field Command for more than an hour on the problem
of attacking the
Pentagon. The military's other major command centers were either knocked out on September 8 or subsequently
consolidated with
the Pentagon, which the top brass apparently regard as impregnable.
And it damned near is. We went over every possibility we could think of, and we came up with no really convincing
plan- except,
perhaps, one. That is to make an air delivery of a bomb.
In the massive ring of defenses around the Pentagon there is a great deal of anti-aircraft firepower, but we decided that
a small plane,
flying just above the ground, might be able to get through the three-mile gauntlet with one of our 60-kiloton
warheads. One factor in
favor of such an attempt is that we have never before used aircraft in such a way, and we might
hope to catch the anti-aircraft crews
off their guard.
Although
the military is guarding all civil airfields, it just happens that we have an old crop duster stashed in a barn only a few
miles
from here. My immediate assignment is to prepare a detailed plan for an aerial attack on the Pentagon by next Monday.
We must
make a final decision at that time and then act without further delay.
Chapter XXVIII
November 9, 1993. It's still three hours until first light, and all systems are "go."
I'll use the time to write a few pages-my last : diary
entry. Then it's a one-way trip to the Pentagon for me. The warhead
is strapped into the front seat of the old Stearman and rigged to
detonate either on impact or when I flip a switch in
the back seat. Hopefully, I'll be able to manage a low-level air burst directly over
the center of the Pentagon. Failing
that, I'll at least try to fly as close as I can before I'm shot down.
It's been more than four years since I've flown, but I've thoroughly familiarized myself with the Stearman cockpit and been
briefed on
the plane's peculiarities: I don't anticipate any piloting problems. The barn-hangar here is only eight miles
from the Pentagon. We'll
thoroughly warm up the engine in the barn, and when the door is opened I'll go like a bat out
of hell, straight for the Pentagon, at an
altitude of about 50 feet.
By the time I hit the defensive perimeter I should be making about 150 miles an hour, and it'll take me just under another
70 seconds
to reach the target. Two-thirds of the troops around the Pentagon are niggers, which should greatly boost
my chances of getting
through.
The sky should still be heavily overcast,
and there'll be just enough light for me to make out my landmarks. We've painted the plane
to be as nearly invisible
as possible under the anticipated flying conditions, and I'll be too low for radar-controlled fire. Considering
everything,
I believe my chances are excellent.
I regret that I won't be around to
participate in the final success of our revolution, but I am happy that I have been allowed to do as
much as I have.
It is a comforting thought in these last hours of my physical existence that, of all the billions of men and women of my
race who have ever lived, I will have been able to play a more vital role than all but a handful of them in determining
the ultimate
destiny of mankind. What I will do today will be of more weight in the annals of the race than all the conquests
of Caesar and
Napoleon-if I succeed
And succeed I must, or the entire
revolution will be in the gravest danger. Revolutionary Command estimates that the System will
launch its invasion against
California within the next 48 hours. Once the order is issued from the Pentagon, we will be unable to halt
the invasion.
And if my mission today fails, there'll not be enough time for us to try something else.
Monday night, after we had made the final decision on this mission, I underwent the rite of Union. Actually,
I have been undergoing
the rite for the past 30 hours, and it will not be complete for another three; only in the moment
of my death will I achieve full
membership in the Order.
To many
that may seem a gloomy prospect, I suppose, but not to me. I have known what was ahead of me since my trial last March,
and I am grateful that my probationary period has been cut short by five months, partly because of the present crisis and
partly
because my performance since March has been considered exemplary.
The ceremony Monday was more moving and beautiful than I could have imagined it would be. More than 200 of us assembled
in the
cellar of the Georgetown gift shop, from which the partitions and stacked crates had been removed to make room
for us. Thirty new
probationary members were sworn into the Order, and 18 others, including me, participated in the rite
of Union. I alone, however, was
singled out, because of my unique status.
When Major Williams summoned me, I stepped forward and then turned to face the silent sea of robed figures. What a contrast
with
the tiny gathering only two years earlier, when seven of us met upstairs for my initiation! The Order, even with
its extraordinary
standards, is growing with astonishing rapidity.
Knowing fully what was demanded in character and commitment of each man who stood before me, my chest swelled with pride.
These were no soft-bellied, conservative businessmen assembled for some Masonic mumbodumbo;
no loudmouthed, beery red-
necks letting off a little ritualized steam about "the goddam niggers"; no pious,
frightened churchgoers whining for the guidance or
protection of an anthropomorphic deity. These were real men, White
men, men who were now one with me in spirit and
consciousness as well as in blood.
As the torchlight flickered over the coarse, gray robes of the motionless throng, I thought to myself: These
men are the best my race
has produced in this generation-and they are as good
as have been produced in any generation. In them are combined fiery passion
and icy discipline, deep intelligence and
instant readiness for action, a strong sense of self-worth and a total commitment to our
common cause. On them hang the
hopes of everything that will ever be. They are the vanguard of the coming New Era, the pioneers
who will lead our race
out of its present depths and toward the unexplored heights above. And I am one with them!
Then I made my brief declaration: "Brothers! Two years ago, when I entered your ranks for the first time,
I consecrated my life to our
Order and to the purpose for which it exists. But then I faltered in the fulfillment of
my obligation to you. Now I am ready to meet my
obligation fully. I offer you my life. Do you accept it?"
In a rumbling unison their reply came back: "Brother! We accept your life. In return
we offer you everlasting life in us. Your deed shall
not be in vain, nor shall it be forgotten, until the end of time.
To this commitment we pledge our lives."
I know, as certainly as
it is possible for a man to know anything, that the Order will not fail me if I do not fail it. The Order has a life
which
is more than the sum of the lives of its members. When it speaks collectively, as it did Monday, something deeper and older
and wiser than any of us speaks- something which cannot die. Of that deeper life I am now about to partake.
Of course, I would have liked to have children by Katherine, so that I could also have
immortality of another sort, but that is not to be.
I am satisfied.
They've been warming up the engine for about
10 minutes now, and Bill is signalling to me that it's time to go. The rest of the crew
has already taken cover in the
blast shelter we dug under the barn floor. I will now entrust my diary to Bill, and he will later put it in the
hiding
place with the other volumes.
Epilog
Thus
end Earl Turner's diaries, as unpretentiously as they began.
His final
mission was successful, of course, as we all are reminded each year on November 9-our traditional Day of the Martyrs.
With
the System's principal military nerve center destroyed, the System's forces poised outside the Organization's California enclave
continued to wait for orders which never came. Declining morale, soaring desertions, growing Black indiscipline, and finally,
the
inability of the System to maintain the integrity of its supply line to its California troops resulted in the gradual
erosion of the threat of
invasion. Eventually the System began regrouping its forces elsewhere, to meet new challenges
in other parts of the country.
And then, just as the Jews had feared, the flow of Organization activists turned exactly
180 degrees from what it had been in the
weeks and months immediately prior to July 4, 1993. From scores of training
camps in the liberated zone, first hundreds, then
thousands of highly motivated guerrilla fighters began slipping through
the System's diminishing ring of troops and moving eastward.
With these
guerrilla forces the Organization followed the example of its Baltimore members and rapidly established dozens of new
enclaves,
primarily in the nuclear-devastated areas, where System authority was weakest.
The Detroit enclave was initially the most important of these. Bloody anarchy had reigned among the survivors in the Detroit
area for
several weeks after the nuclear blasts of September 8. Eventually, a semblance of order had been restored, with
System troops
loosely sharing power with the leaders of a number of Black gangs in the area. Although there were a few
isolated White strongholds
which kept the roving mobs of Black plundvers and rapists at bay, most of the disorganized
and demoralized White survivors in and
around Detroit offered no effective resistance to the Blacks, and, just as in
other heavily Black areas of the country, they suffered
terribly.
Then, in mid-December, the Organization seized the initiative. A number of synchronized lightning raids on the System's
military
strongpoints in the Detroit area resulted in an easy victory
The Organization then established certain patterns in Detroit g which were soon followed elsewhere. All captured White troops,
as
soon as they had laid down their weapons, were offered a chance to fight with the Organization against the System.
Those who
immediately volunteered were taken aside for preliminary screening and then sent to camps for indoctrination
and special training.
The others were machine-gunned on the spot, without further ado.
The same degree of ruthlessness was used in dealing with the White civilian population. When the Organization's
cadres moved into
the White strongholds in the Detroit suburbs, the first thing they found it necessary to do was to
liquidate most of the local White
leaders, in order to establish the unquestioned authority of the Organization. There
was no time or patience for frying to reason with
shortsighted Whites who insisted that they weren't "racists"
or "revolutionaries" and didn't need the help of any "outside agitators" in
dealing with their problems,
or who had some other conservative or parochial fixation.
The Whites
of Detroit and the other new enclaves were organized more along the lines described by Earl Turner for Baltimore than
for
California, but even more rapidly and roughly. In most areas of the country there was no opportunity for an orderly, large-scale
separation of non-Whites, as in California, and consequently a bloody race war raged for months, taking a terrible toll
of those Whites
who were not in one of the Organization's tightly controlled, all-White enclaves.
Food became critically scarce everywhere during the winter of 1993-1994. The Blacks lapsed into cannibalism,
just as they had in
California, while hundreds of thousands of starving Whites, who earlier had ignored the Organization's
call for a rising against the
System, began appearing at the borders of the various liberated zones begging for food.
The Organization was only able to feed the
White populations already under its control by imposing the severest rationing,
and it was necessary to turn many of the latecomers
away.
Those
who were admitted-and that meant only children, women of childbearing age, and able-bodied men willing to fight in the
Organization's ranks-were subjected to much more severe racial screening than had been used to separate Whites from non-Whites
in California. It was no longer sufficient to be merely White; in order to eat one had to be judged the bearer of especially
valuable
genes.In Detroit the practice was first established (and it was later adopted elsewhere) of providing any able-bodied
White male who sought
admittance to the Organization's enclave with or hot meal and a bayonet or other edged weapon.
His forehead was then marked with
an indelible dye, and he was turned out and could be readmitted permanently only by
bringing back the head of a freshly killed Black
or other non-White. This practice assured that precious food would not
be wasted on those who would not or could not add to the
Organization's fighting strength, but it took a terrible toll
of the weaker and more decadent White elements.
Tens of millions perished
during the first half of 1994, and the total White population of the country reached a low point of
approximately 50
million by August of that year. By then, however, nearly half the remaining Whites were in Organization enclaves,
and
food production and distribution in the enclaves had grown until it was barely sufficient to prevent further losses from starvation.
Although a central government of sorts still existed, the System's military and police
forces were, for all practical purposes, reduced to
a number of essentially autonomous local commands, whose principal
activity became looting for food, liquor, gasoline, and women.
Both the Organization and the System avoided large-scale
encounters with each other, the Organization confining itself to short,
intense raids on System troop concentrations
and other facilities, and the System's forces confining themselves to guarding their
sources of supply and, in some areas,
to attempting to limit the further expansion of the Organization's enclaves.
But the Organization's enclaves continued to expand, nevertheless, both in size and number, all through the five Dark Years
preceding the New Era. At one time there were nearly 2,000 separate Organization enclaves in North America. Outside these
zones
of order and security, the anarchy and savagery grew steadily worse, with the only real authority wielded by marauding
bands which
preyed on each other and on the unorganized and defenseless masses.
Many of these bands were composed of Blacks, Puerto Ricans, Chicanos, and half-White mongrels. In growing numbers,
however,
Whites also formed bands along racial lines, even without Organization guidance. As the war of extermination
wore on, millions of
soft, city-bred, brainwashed Whites gradually began regaining their manhood. The rest died.
The Organization's growing success was not without its setbacks, of course. One of the
most notable of these was the terrible
Pittsburgh Massacre, of June 1994. The Organization had established an enclave
there in May of that year, forcing the retreat of local
System forces, but it did not act swiftly enough in identifying
and liquidating the local Jewish element.
A number of Jews, in collaboration
with White conservatives and liberals, had time to work out a plan of subversion. The
consequence was that System troops,
aided by their fifth column inside the enclave, recaptured Pittsburgh. The Jews and Blacks
then went on a wild rampage
of mass murder, reminiscent of the worst excesses of the Jew-instigated Bolshevik Revolution in
Russia, 75 years earlier.
By the time the blood-orgy ended, virtually every White in the area had either been butchered or forced to
flee. The
surviving staff members of the Organization's Pittsburgh Field Command, whose hesitation in dealing with the Jews had
brought
on the catastrophe, were rounded up and shot by a special disciplinary squad acting on orders from Revolutionary
Command.
The only time, after November 9, 1993, the Organization was forced to detonate a nuclear
weapon on the North American continent
was a year later, in Toronto. Hundreds of thousands of Jews had fled the United
States to that Canadian city during 1993 and 1994,
making almost a second New York of it and using it as their command
center for the war raging to the south. So far as both the Jews
and the Organization were concerned, the U.S.-Canadian
border had no real significance during the later stages of the Great
Revolution, and by mid-1994 conditions were only
slightly less chaotic north of the border than south of it.
Throughout
the Dark Years neither the Organization nor the System could hope for a completely decisive advantage over the other,
so
long as they both retained the capability for nuclear warfare. During the first part of this period, when the System's conventional
military strength greatly exceeded the Organization's, only the Organization's threat of retaliation with its more than
100 nuclear
warheads hidden inside the major population centers still under System control kept the System, in most cases,
from moving against
the Organization's liberated zones.
Later, when
Organizational gains, together with growing attrition of the System's forces through desertions, tilted the balance of
conventional strength toward the Organization, the System retained control over a number of military units armed with nuclear
weapons and, by threatening to use these, forced the Organization to leave certain System strongholds inviolate.
Even the System's elite, pampered nuclear troops were not immune to the processes of attrition
which sapped the System's
conventional strength, however, and they could postpone the inevitable only temporarily. On
January 30, 1999, in the momentous
Truce of Omaha, the last group of System generals surrendered their commands to the
Organization, in return for a pledge that they
and their immediate families would be allowed to live out the remainders
of their lives unmolested. The Organization kept its pledge,
and a special reservation on an island off the California
coast was set aside for the generals.
Then, of course, came the mopping-up
period, when the last of the non-White bands were hunted down and exterminated, followed
by the final purge of undesirable
racial elements among the remaining White population.
From the liberation
of North America until the beginning of the New Era for our whole planet, there elapsed the remarkably short time
of
just under 11 months. Professor Anderson has recorded and analyzed the events of this climactic period in detail in his History
of
the Great Revolution. Here it is sufficient to note that, with the principal centers of world Jewish power annihilated
and the nuclear
threat of the Soviet Union neutralized, the most important obstacles to the Organization's worldwide
victory were out of the way.
From as early
as 1993 the Organization had had active cells in Western Europe, and they grew with extraordinary rapidity in the six
years
preceding the victory in North America. Liberalism had taken its toll in Europe, just as in America, and the old order in
most
places was a rotted-out shell with only a surface semblance of strength. The disastrous economic collapse in Europe
in the spring of
1999, following the demise of the System in North America, greatly helped in preparing the European
masses morally for the
Organization's final takeover.
That takeover
came in a great, Europe-wide rush in the summer and fall of 1999, as a cleansing hurricane of change swept over the
continent,
clearing away in a few months the refuse of a millennium or more of alien ideology and a century or more of profound
moral
and material decadence. The blood flowed ankle-deep in the streets of many of Europe's great cities momentarily, as the race
traitors, the offspring of generations of dysgenic breeding, and hordes of Gastarbeiter met a common fate. Then the great
dawn of the
New Era broke over the Western world.
The single remaining
power center on earth not under Organizational control by early December 1999 was China. The Organization
was willing
to postpone the solution of the Chinese problem for several years, but the Chinese themselves forced the Organization to
take immediate and drastic action. The Chinese, of course, had invaded the Asiatic regions of the Soviet Union are. immediately
after
the nuclear strike of September 8, 1993, but until the fall of 1999 they had remained east of the Urals, consolidating
the vast, new,
conquered territory.
When, during the summer and
early fall of 1999, one European nation after another was liberated by the Organization, the Chinese
decided to make
a grab for European Russia. The Organization countered this move massively, using nuclear missiles to knock out
the still-primitive
Chinese missile and strategic-bomber capabilities, as well as hitting a number of new Chinese troop concentrations
west
of the Urals. Unfortunately, this action did not stem the Yellow tide flowing north and west from China.
The Organization still required time to reorganize and reorient the European populations
newly under its control before it could hope
to deal in a conventional manner with the enormous numbers of Chinese infantry
pouring across the Urals into Europe; all its
dependable troops at that time were hardly sufficient even for garrison
duty in the newly liberated and still not entirely pacified areas
of eastern and southern Europe.
Therefore, the Organization resorted to a combination of chemical, biological, and radiological means, on an
enormous scale, to deal
with the problem. Over a period of four years some 16 million square miles of the earth's surface,
from the Ural Mountains to the
Pacific and from the Arctic Ocean to the Indian Ocean, were effectively sterilized. Thus
was the Great Eastern Waste created.
Only in the last decade have certain
areas of the Waste been declared safe for colonization. Even so, they are "safe" only in the
sense that the
poisons sowed there a century ago have abated to the point that they are no longer a hazard to life. As everyone is
aware,
the bands of mutants which roam the Waste remain a real threat, and it may be another century before the last of them has
been eliminated and White colonization has once again established a human presence throughout this vast area.
But it was in the year 1999, according to the chronology of the Old Era-just 110 years
after the birth of the Great One- that the dream
of a White world finally became a certainty. And it was the sacrifice
of the lives of uncounted thousands of brave men and women of
the Organization during the preceding years which had kept
that dream alive until its realization could no longer be denied.
Among
those uncounted thousands Earl Turner played no small part. He gained immortality for himself on that dark November day
106 years ago when he faithfully fulfilled his obligation to his race, to the Organization, and to the holy Order which
had accepted him
into its ranks. And in so doing he helped greatly to assure that his race would survive and prosper,
that the Organization would
achieve its worldwide political and military goals, and that the Order would spread its wise
and benevolent rule over the earth for all
time to come.
The
End
TO: EDITORS/COLUMNISTS
FROM: MYRNA SHINBAUM
RE: Q & A ON THE TURNER DIARIES
DATE: MAY 16, 1996
The Turner Diaries recently drew national attention when it was disclosed that Timothy McVeigh, the
accused
Oklahoma City bomber, actively promoted the book before the April 1995 bombing. Originally
published in 1978 by the author
-- one of America's most notorious neo-Nazis -- the novel was available
only through limited distribution channels, primarily
from far-right hate groups. With its announced
publication by Lyle Stuart's Barricade Books, it could become accessible
through mainstream booksellers.
This Q&A may be reproduced in its entirety or as excerpts with proper credit to the
Anti-Defamation
League.
What is The Turner Diaries?
The Turner Diaries, first published in 1978, is a novel popular among far-right extremists.
Written by
William Pierce (under the pseudonym of Andrew Macdonald), it portrays the violent overthrow of the
Federal
Government, and the systematic killing of Jews and non-whites in order to establish an "Aryan"
world.
What influence has The Turner Diaries had on violent, far right extremists?
It is known that accused Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh was an avid reader and enthusiastic
promoter of The Turner Diaries. There are remarkable similarities between the bombing of the Murrah
Federal Building
in Oklahoma city and a scene in The Turner Diaries which graphically describes the
preparation of a bomb which is used
to destroy the national headquarters of the FBI.
Similarly, The Turner
Diaries is seen as the likely inspiration for the violent extremist group known as "The
Order," which in the
early 1980's committed a series of crimes including murders, robberies,
counterfeiting, and the bombing of a synagogue.
Robert Mathews, the leader of this terrorist gang, told an
acquaintance that the bank robberies committed by The Order
were the beginning of the American Nazi
revolution depicted in The Turner Diaries. Mathews was killed in a fire resulting
from a shootout with FBI
agents in 1984, and most of the other leaders of The Order are serving long prison terms.
What are some representative quotes from The Turner Diaries?
"My day's work started a little before five o'clock yesterday, when I began helping Ed Sanders mix
heating oil
with the ammonium nitrate fertilizer in Unit 8's garage. We stood the 100 pound bags on
end one by one and poked a small
hole in the top with a screwdriver, just big enough to insert the
end of a funnel. While I held the bag and funnel, Ed
poured in a gallon of oil... It took us nearly
three hours to do all 44 sacks, and the work really wore me out.
Meanwhile, George and Henry were out stealing a truck. With only two-and-a-half tons of
explosives we didn't need a big tractor trailer rig, so we decided to grab a delivery truck..."
"...If the
White nations of the world had not allowed themselves to become subject to the Jew, to
Jewish ideas, to Jewish spirit,
this war would not be necessary. We can hardly consider ourselves
blameless. We can hardly say we had no choice, no chance
to avoid the Jew's snare. We can
hardly say we were not warned."
"...the people had their share of the Jews and their tricks... If the Organization survives this
contest, no Jew
will - anywhere. We'll go to the utmost ends of the Earth to hunt down the last of
Satan's spawn..."
Who is William Pierce?
William Pierce is the leader of the West Virginia based National Alliance, a neo-Nazi group. Under the
pseudonym of Andrew Macdonald, he is the author of the racist and anti-Semitic fantasy novel
The Turner
Diaries. Pierce holds a Ph.D. in physics, and formerly held a teaching position Oregon State University.
He has, at various times, been affiliated with George Lincoln Rockwell's American Nazi Party, and Willis
Carto's National
Youth Alliance (Carto now heads the Washington, D.C. based Liberty Lobby, the largest
and most well funded Anti-Semitic
organization in America today), though Carto and Pierce are currently
rivals.
Pierce is also a founder and trustee of the "Cosmotheist Church," a "Christian Identity" group which
shares membership and organizational space with the National Alliance. (The pseudo-religious Identity
Church movement
holds that whites are the "chosen people" of the Bible, and that Jews and blacks are
"mud people"
and the children of Satan)
What is the National Alliance?
Since the 1970's Pierce has run The National Alliance, a neo-Nazi organization based in
West Virginia,
which actively promulgates racist and anti-Semitic propaganda. Its subsidiary, National Vanguard Books,
pushes such notorious titles as Mein Kampf, The International Jew, and of course, Pierce's own The
Turner Diaries.
In 1983, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit, agreeing with an amicus brief
submitted by ADL, the American
Jewish Congress, and the NAACP, found that National Alliance was not
an educational organization and upheld an I.R.S
ruling stripping it of its tax exempt status.
What else has Pierce
written?
In addition to The Turner Diaries, Pierce (again under
the pen name Andrew Macdonald) has written a
similar racist fantasy novel entitled Hunter. Hunter depicts the story of
a drive-by killer who begins
murdering inter-racial couples and eventually begins assassinating Jews in order to "cleanse"
America
and save the future of white civilization. The book is dedicated to Joseph Paul Franklin, a fire bomber of
synagogues who is serving multiple life sentences for the sniper murders of at least two black men.
Pierce is also
the editor of National Vanguard, and the National Alliance Bulletin, both published by the
National Alliance, and appears
regularly on his own short-wave radio program called "American Dissident
Voices."
How does Pierce try to recruit or attract new supporters?
New World Order Comix is a comic book published by National Vanguard Books. Aimed at white
teenagers, the goal of the
comic is to recruit young people to the National Alliance neo-Nazi cause. The
book is replete with racist and anti-Semitic
sentiments. For example, "New World Order Comix #1" is
subtitled "The Saga of... White Will," the
name of the young "hero" of the story, who has conflicts with the
blacks and Jews in his class and is eventually
turned on to the National Alliance by the father of a friend.
The National Alliance also maintains a site on the World
Wide Web of the Internet, where computer users
can download written materials, and request information about the organization.
