Foreword



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.

A.M.
New Baltimore
April 100

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. l 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 attach_ 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 attach_ case and took out a small, black object
about the size of a pack of cigarettes which was attached 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 attach_ 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 rearrest 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.)
The consequence was that we lad nearly a two-mile hike each
way instead of less than half a mile. 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
were 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 signalled 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 closeups 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 boobytraps. 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
boobytrapped 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 marned 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 copyfitting.
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
grapefruitjuice cans, peanutbutter 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 cannisters 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 outmanned 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
attached 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
attached-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.

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 popculture 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 handwringing.
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 closeup 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 closeup
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, bannisters, 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 194S 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
Oathbreaking-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 he was 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 attach_ 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 attach_ 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.

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, autoloading 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 reports, 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. q Our
retribution against the sheriff here should serve as a warning -~~ to
the Jew's Gentile henchmen, at least, that if they adopt the X 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 S 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.

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; 0 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 0 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 outmanned 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 Cadillacs, 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 counterflow 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
garbageman 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 racecriminals, 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
racecriminals 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 W 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. g
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, lot 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 extrordinarily
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 burnedout 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,
sheeplike 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 heir
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.

November2. 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.
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