The Turner Diaries
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.