The Turner Diaries
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.