The Turner Diaries
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.