The Turner Diaries
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.