The Turner Diaries
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.