There exists such an extensive body of literature on the Great Revolutionincluding the memoirs of virtually every one of its leading figures who survivedinto the New Era, that yet another book dealing with the events andcircumstances of that time of cataclysmic upheaval and rebirth may seemsuperfluous. The Turner Diaries, however, provides an insight into thebackground of the Great Revolution which is uniquely valuable for two reasons:  1) It is a fairly detailed and continuous record of a portion of the struggleduring the years immediately before the culmination of the Revolution, writtenas it happened, on a day-to-day basis. Thus, it is free of the distortion which often afflicts hindsight. Although the diaries of other participants in that mighty conflict are extant, none which has yet been published provides as complete and detailed a record.

  2) It is written from the viewpoint of a rank-and-file member of the Organization, and, although it consequently suffers from myopia occasionally, it is a totally frank document. Unlike the accounts recorded by some of the leaders of the Revolution, its author did not have one eye on his place in history as he wrote. As we read the pages which follow, we get a better understanding than from any other source, probably, of the true thoughts and feelings of the men and women whose struggle and sacrifice saved our race in its time of greatest peril and brought about the New Era.
  
Earl Turner, who wrote these diaries, was born in 43 BNE in Los Angeles, which was the name of a vast metropolitan area on the west coast of the North American continent in the Old Era, encompassing the present communities of Eckartsville and Wesselton as well as a great deal of the surrounding countryside. He grew up in the Los Angeles area and was trained as an electrical engineer.

  After his education he settled near the city of Washington, which was then the capital of the United States. He was employed there by an electronics researchfirm. He first became active in the Organization in 12 BNE. When this record begins, in 8 BNE (1991 according to the old chronology), Turner was 35 years old and had no mate.

  These diaries span barely two years in Earl Turner's life, yet they give us an intimate acquaintance with one of those whose name is inscribed in the Record of Martyrs. For that reason alone his words should have a special significance for all of us, who in our school days were given the task of memorizing the names of all the Martyrs in that sacred Record handed down to us by our ancestors.

  Turner's diaries consist, in their manuscript form, of five large, cloth-bound ledgers, completely filled, and a few pages at the beginning of a sixth. There are many loose inserts and notes between the ledger pages, apparently written by Turner on those days when he was away from his base and later interpolated into his permanent record.

  The ledgers were discovered last year along with a wealth of other historically important material by the same team from the Historical Institute, led by Professor Charles Anderson, which earlier uncovered the Eastern Command Center of the Revolution in its excavations near the Washington ruins. It is fitting that they now be made available to the general public during this, the 100th anniversary year of the Great Revolution.

Chapter 1

A.M.
New Baltimore
April 100

 September 16, 1991. Today it finally began! After all these years of talking-and nothing but talking-we have finally taken our first action. We are at war with the System, and it is no longer a war of words.

I cannot sleep, so I will try writing down some of the thoughts which are flying
through my head. It is not safe to talk here. The walls are quite thin, and the neighbors might wonder at a late-night conference. Besides, George and Katherine are already asleep. Only Henry and I are still awake, and he's just staring at the ceiling.

  I am really uptight. l am so jittery I can barely sit still. And I'm exhausted. I've been up since 5:30 this morning, when George phoned to warn that the arrests had begun, and it's after midnight now. I've been keyed up and on the move all day. But at the same time I'm exhilarated. We have finally acted! How long we will be able to continue defying the System, no one knows. Maybe it will all end
tomorrow, but we must not think about that. Now that we have begun, we must continue with the plan we have been developing so carefully ever since the Gun Raids two years ago.
 
 What a blow that was to us! And how it shamed us! All that brave talk by
patriots, "The government will never take my guns away," and then nothing but
meek submission when it happened.  On the other hand, maybe we should be heartened by the fact that there were still so many of us who had guns then, nearly 18 months after the Cohen Act had outlawed all private ownership of firearms in the United States. It was only because so many of us defied the law and hid our weapons instead of turning them in that the government wasn't able to act more harshly against us after the Gun Raids.
  
I'll never forget that terrible day: November 9, 1989. They knocked on my door at five in the morning. I was completely unsuspecting as I got up to see who it was. I opened the door, and four Negroes came pushing into the apartment before I could stop them. One was carrying a baseball bat, and two had long kitchen knives thrust into their belts. The one with the bat shoved me back into a corner and stood guard over me with his bat raised in a threatening position while the other three began ransacking my apartment.

  My first thought was that they were robbers. Robberies of this sort had become all too common since the Cohen Act, with groups of Blacks forcing their way into white homes to rob and rape, knowing that even if their victims had guns they probably would not dare use them.
  
Then the one who was guarding me flashed some kind of card and informed me
that he and his accomplices were "special deputies" for the Northern Virginia
Human Relations Council. They were searching for firearms, he said.  I couldn't believe it. It just couldn't be happening. Then I saw that they were wearing strips of green cloth tied around their left arms. As they dumped the contents of drawers on the floor and pulled luggage from the closet, they were ignoring things that robbers wouldn't have passed up: my brand-new electric razor, a valuable gold pocket watch, a milk bottle full of dimes. They were looking for firearms!

 Right after the Cohen Act was passed, all of us in the Organization had cached
our guns and ammunition where they weren't likely to be found. Those in my unit had carefully greased our weapons, sealed them in an oil drum, and spent all of one tedious weekend burying the drum in an eight-foot-deep pit 200 miles away in the woods of western Pennsylvania. But I had kept one gun out of the cache. I had hidden my .357 magnum revolver and 50 rounds of ammunition inside the door frame between the kitchen and the living room. By pulling out two loosened nails and removing one board from the door frame I could get to my revolver in about two minutes flat if I ever needed it. I had timed myself.
But a police search would never uncover it. And these inexperienced Blacks
couldn't find it in a million years. After the three who were conducting the search had looked in all the obvious places, they began slitting open my mattress and the sofa cushions. I protested vigorously at this and briefly considered trying to put up a fight.

  About that time there was a commotion out in the hallway. Another group of
searchers had found a rifle hidden under a bed in the apartment of the young
couple down the hall. They had both been handcuffed and were being forcibly
escorted toward the stairs. Both were clad only in their underwear, and the
young woman was complaining loudly about the fact that her baby was being left alone in the apartment.
  
Another man walked into my apartment. He was a Caucasian, though with an
unusually dark complexion. He also wore a green armband, and he carried an
attach-case and a clipboard. The Blacks greeted him deferentially and reported the negative result of their search: "No guns here, Mr. Tepper."

  Tepper ran his finger down the list of names and apartment numbers on his
clipboard until he came to mine. He frowned. "This is a bad one," he said. "He
has a racist record. Been cited by the Council twice. And he owned eight
firearms which were never turned in."  Tepper opened his attach- case and took out a small, black object about the size of a pack of cigarettes which was attached by a long cord to an electronic instrument in the case. He began moving the black object in long sweeps back and forth over the walls, while the attach_ case emitted a dull, rumbling noise. The rumble rose in pitch as the gadget approached the light switch, but Tepper convinced himself that the change was caused by the metal junction box and conduit buried in the wall. He continued his methodical sweep.
  
As he swept over the left side of the kitchen door frame the rumble jumped to
a piercing shriek. Tepper grunted excitedly, and one of the Negroes went out and came back a few seconds later with a sledge hammer and a pry bar. It took the Negro substantially less than two minutes after that to find my gun.
  
I was handcuffed without further ado and led outside. Altogether, four of us
were arrested in my apartment building. In addition to the couple down the hall,
there was an elderly man from the fourth floor. They hadn't found a firearm in
his apartment, but they had found four shotgun shells on his closet shelf. Ammunition was also illegal.

  Mr Tepper and some of his "deputies" had more searches to carry out, but three large Blacks with baseball bats and knives were left to guard us in front of the apartment building. The four of us were forced to sit on the cold sidewalk, in various states of undress, for more than an hour until a police van finally came for us.  As other residents of the apartment building left for work, they eyed us
curiously. We were all shivering, and the young woman from down the hall was
weeping uncontrollably. One man stopped to ask what it was all about. One of our guards brusquely explained that we were all under arrest for possessing illegal weapons. The man stared at us and shook his head disapprovingly. Then the Black pointed to me and said: "And that one's a racist."  Still shaking his head, the man moved on.

Herb Jones, who used to belong to the Organization and was one of the most outspoken of the "they'll-never-get-my-gun" people before the Cohen Act, walked by quickly with his eyes averted. His apartment had been searched too, but Herb was clean. He had been practically the first man in town to turn his guns over to the police after the passage of the Cohen Act made him liable to ten years imprisonment in a Federal penitentiary if he kept them.

That was the penalty the four of us on the sidewalk were facing. It didn't
work out that way, though. The reason it didn't is that the raids which were
carried out all over the country that day netted a lot more fish than the System
had counted on: more than 800,000 persons were arrested.

At first the news media tried hard to work up enough public sentiment against
us so that the arrests would stick. The fact that there weren't enough jail cells in the country to hold us all could be remedied by herding us into barbed-wire enclosures outdoors until new prison facilities could be readied, the newspapers suggested. In freezing weather!
  
I still remember the Washington Post headline the next day: "Fascist-Racist
Conspiracy Smashed, Illegal Weapons Seized." But not even the brainwashed
American public could fully accept the idea that nearly a million of their fellow citizens had been engaged in a secret, armed conspiracy. As more and more details of the raids leaked out, public restlessness grew. One of the details which bothered people was that the raiders had, for the most part, exempted Black neighborhoods from the searches. The explanation given at first for this was that since "racists" were the ones primarily suspected of harboring firearms, there was relatively little need to search Black homes.

The peculiar logic of this explanation broke down when it turned out that a
number of persons who could hardly be considered either "racists" or "fascists"
had been caught up in the raids. Among them were two prominent liberal newspaper columnists who had earlier been in the forefront of the antigun crusade, four Negro Congressmen (they lived in White neighborhoods), and an embarrassingly large number of government officials.

The list of persons to be raided, it turned out, had been compiled primarily
from firearms sales records which all gun dealers had been required to keep. If
a person had turned a gun in to the police after the Cohen Act was passed, his
name was marked off the list. If he hadn't, it stayed on, and he was raided on
November 9-unless he lived in a Black neighborhood. In addition, certain categories of people were raided whether they had ever purchased a firearm from a dealer or not. All the members of the Organization were raided.

The government's list of suspects was so large that a number of "responsible"
civilian groups were deputized to assist in the raids. l guess the planners in
the System thought that most of the people on their list had either sold their
guns privately before the Cohen Act, or had disposed of them in some other way. Probably they were expecting only about a quarter as many people to be arrested as actually were.
  
Anyway, the whole thing soon became so embarrassing and so unwieldy that most of the arrestees were turned loose again within a week. The group I was
with-some 600 of us-was held for three days in a high school gymnasium in
Alexandria before being released. During those three days we were fed only four times, and we got virtually no sleep. But the police did get mug shots, fingerprints, and personal data from everyone. When we were released we were told that we were still technically under arrest and could expect to be picked up again for prosecution at any time.

The media kept yelling for prosecutions for awhile, but the issue was
gradually allowed to die. Actually, the System had bungled the affair rather
badly. For a few days we were all more frightened and glad to be free than anything else. A lot of people in the Organization dropped out right then and there. They didn't want to take any more chances. Others stayed in but used the Gun Raids as an excuse for inactivity. Now that the patriotic element in the population had been disarmed, they argued, we were all at the mercy of the System and had to be much more careful. They wanted us to cease all public recruiting activities and "go underground." As it turned out, what they really had in mind was for the Organization to restrict itself henceforth to "safe" activities, such activities to consist principally in complaining-better yet, whispering-to one another about how bad things were.

The more militant members, on the other hand, were for digging up our weapons caches and unleashing a program of terror against the System immediately, carrying out executions of Federal judges, newspaper editors, legislators, and other System figures. The time was ripe for such action, they felt, because in the wake of the Gun Raids we could win public sympathy for such a campaign against tyranny.  It is hard to say now whether the militants were right. Personally, I think they were wrong-although I counted myself as one of them at the time. We could certainly have killed a number of the creatures responsible for America's ills, but I believe we would have lost in the long run.
  
For one thing, the Organization just wasn't well disciplined enough for waging
terror against the System. There were too many cowards and blabbermouths among us. Informers, fools, weaklings, and irresponsible jerks would have been our undoing. For a second thing, I am sure now that we were overoptimistic in our judgment of the mood of the public. What we mistook as general resentment against the System's abrogation of civil rights during the Gun Raids was more a passing wave of uneasiness resulting from all the commotion involved in the mass arrests.

As soon as the public had been reassured by the media that they were in no
danger, that the government was cracking down only on the "racists, fascists,
and other anti-social elements" who had kept illegal weapons, most relaxed again and went back to their TV and funny papers. As we began to realize this, we were more discouraged than ever. We had based all our plans-in fact, the whole rationale of the Organization-on the assumption that Americans were inherently opposed to tyranny, and that when the System became oppressive enough they could be led to overthrow it. We had badly underestimated the degree to which materialism had corrupted our fellow citizens, as well as the extent to which their feelings could be manipulated by the mass media.

As long as the government is able to keep the economy somehow gasping and
wheezing along, the people can be conditioned to accept any outrage. Despite the continuing inflation and the gradually declining standard of living, most
Americans are still able to keep their bellies full today, and we must simply
face the fact that that's the only thing which counts with most of them.
  
Discouraged and uncertain as we were, though, we began laying new plans for
the future. First, we decided to maintain our program of public recruiting. In
fact, we intensified it and deliberately made our propaganda as provocative as
possible. The purpose was not only to attract new members with a militant
disposition, but at the same time to purge the Organization of the fainthearts
and hobbyists-the "talkers." We also tightened up on discipline. Anyone who missed a scheduled meeting twice in a row was expelled. Anyone who failed to carry out a work assignment was expelled. Anyone who violated our rule against loose talk about Organizational matters was expelled.
  
We had made up our minds to have an Organization that would be ready the next time the System provided an opportunity to strike. The shame of our failure to act, indeed, our inability to act, in 1989 tormented us and drove us without mercy. It was probably the single most important factor in steeling our wills to whip the Organization into fighting trim, despite all obstacles.
  
Another thing that helped-at least, with me-was the constant threat of
rearrest and prosecution. Even if I had wanted to give it all up and join the
TV-and-funnies crowd, I couldn't. I could make no plans for a "normal," civilian future, never knowing when I might be prosecuted under the Cohen Act. (The Constitutional guarantee of a speedy trial, of course, has been "reinterpreted" by the courts until it means no more than our Constitutional guarantee of the right to keep and bear arms.)
  
So I, and I know this also applies to George and Katherine and Henry, threw
myself without reservation into work for the Organization and made only plans
for the future of the Organization. My private life had ceased to matter. Whether the Organization actually is ready, I guess we'll find out soon enough. So far, so good, though. Our plan for avoiding another mass roundup, like 1989, seems to have worked.

Early last year we began putting a number of new members, unknown to the
political police, into police agencies and various quasi-official organizations,
such as the human relations councils. They served as our early-warning network and otherwise kept us generally informed of the System's plans against us.We were surprised at the ease with which we were able to set up and operate this network. We never would have gotten away with it back in the days of J. Edgar Hoover.
  
It is ironic that while the Organization has always warned the public against
the dangers of racial integration of our police, this has now turned out to be a
blessing in disguise for us. The "equal opportunity" boys have really done a
wonderful wrecking job on the FBI and other investigative agencies, and their
efficiency is way down as a result. Still, we'd better not get over-confident or
careless.
Omigod! It's 4:00 AM. Got to get some sleep!


Chapter 2

  September 18, 1991: These last two days have really been a comedy of errors, and today the comedy nearly became a tragedy. When the others were finally able to wake me tip yesterday, we put our heads together to figure what to do. The first thing, we all agreed, was to arm ourselves and then to find a better hideout.
  Our unit-that is, the four of us-leased this apartment under a false name
nearly six months ago, just to have it available when we needed it. (We just
beat the new law which requires a landlord to furnish the police with the social
security number of every new tenant, just like when a person opens a bank
account.) Because we've stayed away from the apartment until now, I'm sure the political police haven't connected any of us with this address.
  But it's too small for all of us to live here for any length of time, and it
doesn't offer enough privacy from the neighbors. We were too anxious to save
money when we picked this place.
  Money is our main problem now. We thought to stock this place with food,
medicine, tools, spare clothing, maps-even a bicycle-but we forgot about cash.
Two days ago, when the word came that they were starting the arrests again, we had no chance to withdraw money from the bank; it was too early in the morning. Now our accounts are surely frozen.
  So we have only the cash that was in our pockets at the time: a little over
$70 altogether (Note to the reader: The "dollar" was the basic monetary unit in
the United States in the Old Era. In 1991, two dollars would buy a half-kilo
loaf of bread or about a quarter of a kilo of sugar.)
  And no transportation except for the bicycle. According to plan, we had all
abandoned our cars, since the police would be looking for them. Even if we had kept a car, we would have a problem trying to get fuel for it. Since our
gasoline ration cards are magnetically coded with our social security numbers,
when we stuck them into the computer at a filling station they would show
blocked quotas-and instantaneously tell the Feds monitoring the central computer where we were.
  Yesterday George, who is our contact with Unit 9, took the bicycle and pedaled over to talk to them about the situation. They're a little better off than we are, but not much. The six of them have about $400, but they're crowded into a hole in the wall which is even less satisfactory than ours, according to George.
  They do have four automobiles and a fair-sized store of fuel, though. Carl
Smith, who is with them, made some very convincing counterfeit license plates
for everyone with a car in his unit. We should have done the same, but it's too
late now.
  They offered George one car and $50 cash, which he gratefully accepted. They didn't want to let go of any of their gasoline, though, other than the tankful
in the car they gave us.
  That still left us with no money to rent another place, no} enough gas to make
the round trip to our weapons cache in Pennsylvania and back. We didn't even
have enough money to buy a week's groceries when our food stock ran out, and that would be in about another four days.
  The network will be established in ten days, but until then we are on our own.
Furthermore, when our unit joins the network it is expected to have already
solved its supply problems and be ready to go into action in concert with the
other units.
  If we had more money we could solve all our problems, including the fuel
problem. Gasoline is always available on the black market, of course-at $10 a
gallon, nearly twice what it costs at a filling station.
  We stewed over our situation until this afternoon. Then, desperate not to
waste any more time, we finally decided to go out and take some money. Henry and I were stuck with the chore, since we couldn't afford for George to get arrested. He's the only one who knows the network code.
  We had Katherine do a pretty good makeup job on us first. She's into amateur theater and has the equipment and know-how to really change a person's appearance.
  My inclination was just to walk into the first liquor store we came to, knock
the manager on the head with a brick, and scoop up the money from the cash
register. Henry wouldn't go along with that, though. He said we couldn't use means which contradicted our ends. If we begin preying on the public to support ourselves, we will be viewed as a gang of common criminals, regardless of how lofty our aims are. Worse, we will eventually begin to think of ourselves the same way. Henry looks at everything in terms of our ideology. If something doesn't fit, he'll have nothing to do with it.
  In a way this may seem impractical, but I think maybe he's right. Only by
making our beliefs into a living faith which guides us from day to day can we
maintain the moral strength to overcome the obstacles and hardships which lie
ahead.
  Anyway, he convinced me that if we are going to rob liquor stores we have to
do it in a socially conscious way. If we are going to cave in people's heads
with bricks, they must be people who deserve it.
  By comparing the liquor store listings in the Yellow Pages of the telephone
directory with a list of supporting members of the Northern Virginia Human
Relations Council which had been filched for us by the girl we sent over there
to do volunteer work for them, we finally settled on Berman's Liquors and Wines, Saul I. Berman, proprietor.
  There were no bricks handy, so we equipped ourselves with blackjacks
consisting of good-sized bars of Ivory soap inside long, strong ski socks. Henry
also tucked a sheath knife into his belt.
  We parked about a block and a half from Berman's Liquors, around the corner. When we went in there were no customers in the store. A Black was at the cash register, tending the store.
  Henry asked him for a bottle of vodka on a high shelf behind the counter. When he turned around I let him have it at the base of the skull with my "Ivory
special." He dropped silently to the floor and remained motionless.
  Henry calmly emptied the cash register and a cigar box under the counter which held the larger bills. We walked out and headed for the car We had gotten a little over $800. It had been surprisingly easy.
  Three stores down Henry suddenly stopped and pointed out the sign on the door: "Berman's Deli." Without a moment's hesitation he pushed open the door and walked in. Spurred on by a sudden, reckless impulse I followed him instead of trying to stop him.
  Berman himself was behind the counter, at the back. Henry lured him out by
asking the price of an item near the front of the store which Berman couldn't
see clearly from behind the counter.
  As he passed me, I let him have it in the back of the head as hard as I could.
I felt the bar of soap shatter from the force of the blow.
  Berman went down yelling at the top of his lungs. Then he started crawling
rapidly toward the back of the store, screaming loudly enough to wake the dead. I was completely unnerved by the racket and stood frozen.
  Not Henry though. He leaped onto Berman's back, seized him by the hair, and cut his throat from ear to ear in one, swift motion.
  The silence lasted about one second. Then a fat, grotesque-looking woman of
about 60-probably Berman's wife -came charging out of the back room waving a meat cleaver and emitting an ear-piercing shriek.
  Henry let fly at her with a large jar of kosher pickles and scored a direct
hit. She went down in a spray of pickles and broken glass. Henry then cleaned out the cash register, looked for another cigar box under the counter, found it, and scooped the bills out.
  I snapped out of my trance and followed Henry out the front door as the fat
woman started shrieking again. Henry had to hold me by the arm to keep me from running down the sidewalk.
  It didn't take us but about 15 seconds to walk back to the car, but it seemed
more like 15 minutes. I was terrified. It was more than an hour before I had
stopped shaking and gotten enough of a grip on myself to talk without
stuttering. Some terrorist!
  Altogether we got $1426-enough to buy groceries for the four of us for more
than two months. But one thing was decided then and there: Henry will have to be the one to rob any more liquor stores. I don't have the nerves for it-although I had thought I was doing all right until Berman started yelling.

  September 19: Looking back over what I've written, it's hard to believe these
things have really happened. Until the Gun Raids two years ago, my life was
about as normal as anyone's can be in these times.
  Even after I was arrested and lost my position at the laboratory, I was still
able to live pretty much like everyone else by doing consulting work and special
jobs for a couple of the electronics firms in this area. The only thing out of
the ordinary about my lifestyle was my work for the Organization.
  Now everything is chaotic and uncertain. When I think about the future I
become depressed. It's impossible to know what will happen, but it's certain
that I'll never be able to go back to the quiet, orderly kind of life I had
before.
  Looks like what I'm writing is the beginning of a diary. Perhaps it will help
me to write down what's happened and what my thoughts are each day. Maybe it will add some focus to things, some order, and make it easier for me to keep a grip on myself and become reconciled to this new way of life.
  It's funny how all the excitement I felt the first night here is gone. All I
feel now is apprehension. Maybe the change of scenery tomorrow will improve my outlook. Henry and I will be driving to Pennsylvania for our guns, while George and Katherine try to find us a more suitable place to live.
  Today we made the preparations for our trip. Originally, the plan called for
us to use public transportation to the little town of Bellefonte and then hike
the last six miles into the woods to our cache. Now that we have a car, however, we'll use that instead.
  We figured we only need about five gallons of gasoline, in addition to that
already in the tank, to make the round trip. To be on the safe side, we bought
two five-gallon cans of gas from the taxi-fleet operator in Alexandria who
always bootlegs some of his allotment.
  As rationing has increased during the last few years, so has petty corruption
of every sort. I guess a lot of the large-scale graft in the government which
Watergate revealed a few years back has finally filtered down to the man in the
street. When people began realizing that the big-shot politicians were crooked,
they were more inclined to try to cheat the System a little themselves. All the
new rationing red tape has just exacerbated the tendency-as has the growing
percentage of non-Whites in every level of the bureaucracy.
  The Organization has been one of the main critics of this corruption, but I
can now see that it gives us an important advantage. If everybody obeyed the law and did everything by the book, it would be nearly impossible for an underground group to exist.
  Not only would we not be able to buy gasoline, but a thousand other
bureaucratic obstacles with which the System increasingly hems the lives of our
fellow citizens would be insurmountable for us. As it is, a bribe to a local
official here or a few dollars under the counter to a clerk or secretary there
will allow us to get around many of the government regulations which would
otherwise trip us up.
  The closer public morality in America approaches that of a banana republic,
the easier it will be for us to operate. Of course, with everyone having his
hand out for a bribe, we'll need plenty of money.
  Looking at it philosophically, one can't avoid the conclusion that it is
corruption, not tyranny, which leads to the overthrow of governments. A strong
and vigorous government, no matter how oppressive, usually need not fear
revolution. But a corrupt, inefficient, decadent government-even a benevolent
one-is always ripe for revolution. The System we are fighting is both corrupt
and oppressive, and we should thank God for the corruption.
  The silence about us in the newspapers is worrisome. The Berman thing the
other day wasn't connected to us, of course, and it was given only a paragraph
in today's Post. Robberies of that sort-even where there is killing involved-are
so common these days that they merit no more attention than a traffic accident.
  But the fact that the government launched a massive roundup of known
Organization members last Wednesday and that nearly all of us, more than 2,000 persons, have managed to slip through their fingers and drop out of sight-why isn't that in the papers? The news media are collaborating closely with the political police, of course, but what is their strategy against us?

  There was one small Associated Press article on a back page of yesterday's
paper mentioning the arrest of nine "racists" in Chicago and four in Los Angeles
on Wednesday. The article said that all 13 who were arrested were members of the same organization-evidently ours-but no further details were given. Curious!
  Are they keeping quiet about the failure of the roundup so as not to embarrass
the government? That's not like them. Probably, they're a little paranoid about the ease with which we evaded the roundup. They may have fears that some substantial portion of the public is in sympathy with us and is aiding us, and they don't want to say anything that will give encouragement to our sympathizers.
  We must be careful that this false appearance of "business as usual" doesn't
mislead us into relaxing our vigilance. We can be sure that the political police
are in a crash program to find us. It will be a relief when the network is
established and we can once again receive regular reports from our informants as to just what the rascals are up to.
  Meanwhile, our security rests primarily in our changed appearances and
identities. We've all changed our hair styles and either dyed or bleached our
hair. I've begun wearing new glasses with heavy frames instead of my old
frameless ones, and Katherine has switched from her contact lenses to glasses.
Henry has undergone the most radical transformation, by shaving off his beard
and mustache. And we all have pretty convincing fake driver's licenses, although they won't stand up if they are ever checked against state records.

  Whenever any of us has to do something like the robberies last week, Katherine can do a quick-change job and temporarily give him a third identity. For that she has wigs and plastic gimmicks which fit into the nostrils and inside the mouth and change the whole structure of a person's face-and even his voice. They're not comfortable, but they can be tolerated for a couple of hours at a time, just as I can do without my glasses for a while if necessary.
  Tomorrow will be a long, hard day.


Chapter III

  September21, 1991. Every muscle in my body aches. Yesterday we spent 10 hours hiking, digging, and carrying loads of weapons through the woods. This evening we moved all our supplies from the old apartment to our new hideout.
  It was a little before noon yesterday when we reached the turnoff near
Bellefonte and left the highway. We drove as close to our cache as we could, but the old mining road we had used three years earlier was blocked and impassable more than a mile short of the point where we intended to park. The bank above the roadhad collapsed, and it would have taken a bulldozer to clear the way. (Note to the reader: Throughout his diaries Turner used so-called "English units" of measurement, which were still in common use in North America during the last years of the Old Era. For the reader not familiar with these units, a "mile" was1.6 kilometers, a "gallon" was 3.8 liters, a "foot" was .30 meter, a "yard" was .91 meter, an "inc. ' was 2.5 centimeters, and a "pound" was the weight of .4s kilogram-approximately.)
  The consequence was that we lad nearly a two-mile hike each way instead of
less than half a mile. And it took three round trips to get everything to the
car. We brought shovels, a rope, and a couple of large canvas mail sacks
(courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service), but, as it turned out, these tools were
woefullyinadequate for the task.
  Hiking from the car to the cache with our shovels on our shoulders was
actually refreshing, after the long drive up from Washington. The day was
pleasantly cool, the autumn woods were beautiful, and the old dirt road, though
heavily overgrown, provided easy walking most of the way.
  Even digging down to the top of the oil drum (actually a 50-gallon chemical
drum with a removable lid) in which we had sealed our weapons wasn't too bad.
The ground was fairly soft, and it took us less than an hour to excavate a
five-foot-deep pit and tie our rope to the handles which had been welded to the
lid of the drum.  Then our trouble began. The two of us tugged on the rope as hard as we could, but the drum wouldn't budge an inch. It was as if it had been set in concrete.
  Although the full drum weighed nearly 400 pounds, two of us had been able to lower it into the pit without undue difficulty three years ago. At that time, of
course, there had been several inches of clearance all around it. Now the earth
had settled and was packed tightly against the metal.
  We gave up trying to get the drum out of the hole and decided to open it where it was. To do that we had to dig for nearly another hour, enlarging the hole and clearing a few inches all around the top of the drum so we could get our hands on the locking band which secured the lid. Even so, l had to go into the hole headfirst, with Henry holding my legs.
  Although the outside of the drum had been painted with asphalt to prevent
corrosion, the locking lever itself was thoroughly rusted, and I broke the only
screwdriver we had trying to pry it loose. Finally, after much pounding, I was
able to pry the lever out from the drum with the end of a shovel. With the
locking band loosened, however, the lid remained as tightly in place as ever,
apparently stuck to the drum by the asphalt coating we had applied.
  Working upside down in the narrow hole was difficult and exhausting. We had no tool satisfactory for wedging under the lip of the lid and prying it up.
Finally, almost in desperation, I once again tied the rope to one of the handles
on the lid. Henry and I gave a hard tug, and the lid popped off!
  Then it was just a matter of my going headfirst into the hole again,
supporting myself with one arm on the edge of the drum, and passing the
carefully wrapped bundles of weapons up past my body so that Henry could reach them. Some of the larger bundles-and that included six sealed tins of ammunitionwere both too heavy and too bulky for this method and had to be hauled up by rope.
  Needless to say, by the time we had the drum empty I was completely pooped. My arms ached, my legs were unsteady, and my clothing was drenched with perspiration. But we still had to carry more than 300 pounds of munitions half a mile through dense woods, uphill to the road, and then more than a mile back to the car.
  With proper pack frames to distribute the loads on our backs we might have
carried everything out in one trip. It could have been done easily in two trips.
But with only the awkward mail sacks, which we had to carry in our arms, it took three excruciatingly painful trips.
  We had to stop every hundred yards or so and put our loads down for a minute, and the last two trips were made in total darkness. Anticipating a daylight operation, we hadn't even brought a flashlight. If we don't do a better job of planning our operations in the future, we have some rough times ahead!

  On the way back to Washington we stopped at a small roadside cafe near
Hagerstown for sandwiches and coffee. There were about a dozen people in the place, and the 11 o'clock news was just beginning on the TV set behind the
counter when we walked in. It was a news broadcast I'll never forget.
  The big story of the day was what the Organization had been up to in Chicago.
The System, it seems, had killed one of our people, and in turn we had killed
three of theirs and then engaged in a spectacular - and successful - gunfight
with the authorities. Nearly the whole newscast was occupied in recounting these events.
  We already knew from the papers that nine of our members had been arrested in Chicago last week, and apparently they had had a rough time in the Cook County Jail, where one of them had died. It was impossible to be sure exactly what had happened from what the TV announcer said, but if the System had behaved true to form the authorities had stuck our people individually into cells full of Blacks and then shut their eyes and ears to what ensued.
  That has long been the System's extra-legal way of punishing our people when
they can't pin anything on them that will "stick" in the courts. It's a more
ghastly and dreadful punishment than anything which ever took place in a
medieval torture chamber or in the cellars of the KGB. And they can get away
with it because the news media usually won't even admit that it happens. After
all, if you're trying to convince the public that the races are really equal,
how can you admit that it's worse to be locked in a cell full of Black criminals
than in a cell full of White ones?
  Anyway, the day after our man-the newscaster said his name was Carl Hodges, someone I've not heard of before-was killed, the Chicago Organization fulfilled a promise they'd made more than a year ago, in the event one of our people was ever seriously hurt in a Chicago jail. They ambushed the Cook County sheriff outside his home and blew his head off with a shotgun. They left a note pinned to his body which read: "This is for Carl Hodges."
  That was last Saturday night. On Sunday the System was up in arms. The sheriff of Cook County had been a political bigwig, a front-rank shabbos goy, and they were really raising hell.
  Although they broadcast the news only to the Chicago area on Sunday, they
trotted out several pillars of the community there to denounce the assassination
and the Organization in special TV appearances. One of the spokesmen was a
"responsible conservative," and another was the head of the Chicago Jewish
community. All of them described the Organization as a "gang of racist bigots"
and called on "all right-thinking Chicagoans" to cooperate with the political
police in apprehending the "racists" who had killed the sheriff.
  Well, early this morning the responsible conservative lost both his legs and
suffered severe internal injuries when a bomb wired to the ignition of his car
exploded. The Jewish spokesman was even less fortunate. Someone walked up to him while he was waiting for an elevator in the lobby of his office building, pulled a hatchet from under his coat, cleaved the good Jew's head from crown to shoulder blades, then disappeared in the rush-hour crowd. The Organization
immediately claimed responsibility for both acts.
  After that, it really hit the fan. The governor of Illinois ordered National
Guard troops into Chicago to help local police and FBI agents hunt for
Organization members. Thousands of persons were being stopped on Chicago streets today and asked to prove their identity. The System's paranoia is really
showing.
  This afternoon three men were cornered in a small apartment building in
Cicero. The whole block was surrounded by troops, while the trapped men shot it out with the police. TV crews were all over the place, anxious not to miss the kill.
  One of the men in the apartment apparently had a sniper's rifle, because two
Black cops more than a block away were picked off before it was realized that
Blacks were being singled out as targets and uniformed White cops were not being shot at. This White immunity apparently was not extended to the plainclothes political police, however, because an FBI agent was killed by a burst of sub-machine-gun fire from the apartment when he momentarily exposed himself to hurl a teargas grenade through a window.
  We watched breathlessly as this action was shown on the TV screen, but the
real climax came for us when the apartment was stormed and found empty. A quick room-by-room search of the building also failed to turn up the gunmen.
  Disappointment at this outcome was evident in the TV newsman's voice, but a
man sitting at the other end of the counter from us whistled and clapped when it
was announced that the "racists" had apparently slipped away. The waitress
smiled at this, and it seemed clear to us that, while there certainly was no
unanimous approval for the Organization's actions in Chicago, neither was there
unanimous disapproval.
  Almost as if the System anticipated this reaction to the afternoon's events,
the news scene switched to Washington, where the attorney general of the United States had called a special news conference. The attorney general announced to the nation that the Federal government was throwing all its police agencies into the effort to root out the Organization. He described us as "depraved, racist criminals" who were motivated solely by hatred and who wanted to "undo all the progress toward true equality" which had been made by the System in recent years.
  All citizens were warned to be alert and to assist the government in breaking
up the "racist conspiracy." Anyone observing any suspicious action, especially
on the part of a stranger, was to report it immediately to the nearest FBI
office or Human Relations Council.

  And then he said something very indiscreet, which really betrayed how worried the System is. He stated that any citizen found to be concealing information about us or offering us any comfort or assistance "would be dealt with severely." Those were his very words-the sort of thing one might expect to hear in the Soviet Union, but which would ring harshly on most American ears, despite the best propaganda efforts of the media to justify it.
  All the risks taken by our people in Chicago were more than rewarded by
provoking the attorney general into such a psychological blunder. This incident
also proves the value of keeping the System off balance with surprise attacks.
If the System had kept its cool and thought more carefully about a response to
our Chicago actions, it not only would have avoided a blunder which will bring
us hundreds of new recruits, but it would probably have figured a way to win
much wider public support for its fight against us.

  The news program concluded with an announcement that an hour-long "special" on the "racist conspiracy" would be broadcast Tuesday night (i.e., tonight). We've just finished watching that "special," and it was a real hatchet job, full of errors and outright invention and not very convincing, we all felt. But one thing is certain: the media blackout is over. Chicago has given the Organization instant celebrity status, and we must certainly be the number-one topic of conversation everywhere in the nation.
  As last night's TV news ended, Henry and I choked down the last of our meal
and stumbled outside. I was filled with emotions: excitement, elation over the
success of our people in Chicago, nervousness about being one of the targets of a nationwide manhunt, and chagrin that none of our units in the Washington area had shown the initiative of our Chicago units.
  I was itching to do something, and the first thing that occurred to me was to
try to make some sort of contact with the fellow in the cafe who had seemed
sympathetic to us. I wanted to take some leaflets from our car and put one under the windshield wiper of every vehicle in the parking lot.
  Henry, who always keeps a cool head, emphatically vetoed the idea. As we sat in the car he explained that it was sheer folly to risk calling any attention
whatever to ourselves until we had completed our present mission of safely
delivering our load of weapons to our unit. Furthermore, he reminded me, it
would be a breach of Organization discipline for a member of an underground unit to engage in any direct recruiting activity, however minimal. That function has been relegated to the "legal" units.
  The underground units consist of members who are known to the authorities and have been marked for arrest. Their function is to destroy the System through direct action.

The "legal" units consist of members not presently known to the System. (Indeed, it would be impossible to prove that most of them are members. In this we have taken a page from the communists' book.) Their role is to provide us with intelligence, funding, legal defense, and other support.

  Whenever an "illegal" spots a potential recruit, he is supposed to turn the
information over to a "legal," who will approach the prospect and sound him out. The "legals" are also supposed to handle all the low-risk propaganda activity, such as leafleting. Strictly speaking, we should not even have had any
Organization leaflets with us.
  We waited until the man who had applauded the escape of our members in Chicago came out and got in a pickup truck. We drove by him and noted his license number as we pulled out of the lot. When the network is established, the information will go to the proper person for a follow-up.

  When we arrived back at the apartment, George and Katherine were as excited as Henry and 1. They had also seen the TV newscast. Despite the exertions of the day, I could no more sleep than they, and we all piled back in the car, George and Katherine sharing the back seat with part of our greasy cargo, and went to an all-night drive-in. We could stay in the car and talk safely there without arousing suspicion, and that's what we did-until the early-morning hours.

  One thing we decided was that we would move immediately to new quarters George and Katherine located yesterday. The old apartment just wasn't satisfactory. The walls were so thin that we had to whisper to one another to avoid being overheard by our neighbors. And I'm sure that our irregular hours had already caused the neighbors to speculate on just what we do for a living. With the System warning everyone to report suspicious-looking strangers, it had become downright dangerous to us to remain in a place with so little privacy.
  The new place is much better in every way except the rent. We have a whole
building to ourselves. It is actually a cement-block commercial building which
once housed a small machine shop in a single, garage-like room downstairs, with offices and a storeroom upstairs.
  The place has been condemned, because it lies on the right-of-way for a new
access road to the highway which has been in the planning stages for the last
four years. Like all government projects these days, this one is also bogged
down-probably permanently. Although hundreds of thousands of men are being paid to build new highways, none are actually being built. In the last five years
most of the roads in the country have deteriorated badly, and, although one
always sees repair crews standing around, nothing ever seems to get fixed.
  The government hasn't even gotten around to actually purchasing the land it
has condemned for the new highway, leaving the property owners holding the bag. Legally, the owner of this building isn't supposed to rent it, but he evidently
has an arrangement with someone in city hall. The advantage for us is that there
is no official record of the occupancy of the building- no social security
numbers for the police, no county building inspectors or fire marshals coming
around to check. George just has to take $600-in cash-to the owner once a month.
  George thinks the owner, a wrinkled old Armenian with a heavy accent, is
convinced we intend to use the place for manufacturing illegal drugs or storing
stolen goods and doesn't want to know the details. I suppose that's good,
because it means he won't be snooping around.
  The place really looks like hell on the outside. It's surrounded on three
sides by a sagging, rusty chain-link fence. The grounds are littered with
discarded water heaters, stripped-down engine blocks, and rusting junk of every description. The concrete parking area in front is broken and black with old crankcase oil.
There is a huge sign across the front of the building which has come loose at
one end. It says: "Welding and Machining, J.T. Smith & Sons." Half the window panes on the ground floor are missing, but all the ground-floor windows are boarded up on the inside anyway.
  The neighborhood is a thoroughly grubby light manufacturing area. Next door to us is a small trucking company garage and warehouse. Trucks are coming and going at all hours of the night, which means the cops will not have their suspicions aroused if they see us driving in this area at odd hours.
  So, having decided to make the move, we did it today. Since there was no
electricity, water, or gas in the new place, it was my job to solve the heating,
lighting, and plumbing problems while the others moved our things.
Restoring the water was easy, as soon as I had located the water meter and
gotten the lid off. After turning the water on I dragged some heavy junk over
the meter lid so no one from the water company would be likely to find it, in
case anyone ever came looking.
  The electric problem was a good deal more difficult. There were still lines up
from the building to a power pole, but the current had been shut off at the
meter, which was on an outside wall. I had to carefully knock a hole through the wall behind the meter, from the inside, and then wire jumpers across the
terminals. That took me the better part of the day.
  The rest of my day was occupied in carefully covering all the chinks in the
boards over the downstairs windows and in tacking heavy cardboard over the
upstairs windows, so no ray of light can be seen from the building at night.
  We still have no heat and no kitchen facilities beyond the hot-plate we
brought over from the other place. But at least the john works now, and our
living quarters are tolerably clean, if rather bare. We can continue sleeping on
the floor in our sleeping bags for a while, and we'll buy a couple of electric
heaters and some other amenities in the next few days.



 Chapter IV

 September 30, 1991. There's been so much work in the last week that I've had no time to write. Our plan for setting up the network was simple and
straightforward, but actually doing it has required a terrific effort, at least
on my part. The difficulties I've had to overcome have emphasized for me once
again the fact that even the best-laid plans can be dangerously misleading
unless they have built into them a large amount of flexibility to allow for
unforeseen problems.
  Basically, the network linking all the Organization's units together depends
on two modes of communication: human couriers and highly specialized radio
transmissions. I'm responsible not only for our own unit's radio receiving
equipment but also for the overall maintenance and supervision of the receivers
of the eleven other units in the Washington area and the transmitters of
Washington Field Command and Unit 9. What really messed up my week was the last-minute decision at WFC to equip Unit 2 with a transmitter too. I had to do the equipping.
  The way the network is set up, all communications requiring consultation or
lengthy briefing or situation reports are done orally, face-to-face. Now that
the telephone company maintains a computerized record of all local calls as well as long-distance calls, and with the political police monitoring so many
conversations, telephones are ruled out for our use except in unusual
emergencies.
  On the other hand, messages of a standard nature, which can be easily and
briefly coded, are usually transmitted by radio. The Organization put a great
deal of thought into developing a "dictionary" of nearly 800 different,
standardized messages, each of which can be specified by a three-digit number.
  Thus, at a particular time, the number "2006" might specify the message: "The
operation scheduled by Unit 6 is to be postponed until further notice." One
person in each unit has memorized the entire message dictionary and is
responsible for knowing what the current number coding of the dictionary is at
all times. In our unit that person is George.
  Actually, it's not as hard as it sounds. The message dictionary is arranged in
a very orderly way, and once one has memorized its basic structure it's not too
difficult to memorize the whole thing. The number-coding of the messages is
randomly shifted every few days, but that doesn't mean that George has to learn the dictionary all over again; he just needs to know the new numerical
designation of a single message, and he can then work out the designations for
all the others in his head.
  Using this coding system allows us to maintain radio contact with good
security, using extremely simple and portable equipment. Because our radio
transmissions never exceed a second in duration and occur very infrequently, the political police are not likely to get a directional fix on any transmitter or
to be able to decode any intercepted message.

  Our receivers are even simpler than our transmitters and are a sort of cross
between a transistorized pocket broadcast receiver and a pocket calculator. They remain "on" all the time, and if a numerical pulse with the right tone-coding is broadcast by any of our transmitters in the area they will pick it up and
display and hold a numerical readout, whether they are being monitored at the
moment or not.
  My major contribution to the Organization so far has been the development of
this communications equipment-and, in fact, the actual manufacture of a good bit of it.
  The first series of messages broadcast by Washington Field Command to all
units in this area was on Sunday. It gave instructions for each unit to send its
contact man to a numerically specified location to receive a briefing and
deliver a unit situation report.
  When George returned from Sunday's briefing he relayed the news to the rest of us. The gist of it was that, although there has been no trouble in the
Washington area yet, WFC is worried by the reports which it has received from our informants with the political police.
  The System is going all-out to get us. Hundreds of persons who are suspected
to have sympathies for the Organization or some remote affiliation with us have
been arrested and interrogated. Among these are several of our "legals," but
apparently the authorities haven't been able to pin anything definite on any of
them yet and the interrogations haven't produced any real clues. Still, the
System's reaction to last week's events in Chicago has been more widespread and more energetic than expected.

  One thing on which they are working is a computerized, universal, internal
passport system. Every person 12 years or more of age will he issued a passport and will be required, under threat of severe penalties, to carry it at all
times. Not only can a person be stopped on the street by any police agent and
asked to show his passport, but they have worked out a plan to make the
passports necessary for many everyday operations, such as purchasing an airline, bus, or train ticket, registering in a motel or hotel, and receiving any medical service in a hospital or clinic.
  All ticket counters, motels, physician's offices, and the like will be
equipped with computer terminals linked by telephone lines to a huge, national
data bank and computer center. A customer's magnetically coded passport number will routinely be fed into the computer whenever he buys a ticket, pays a bill, or registers for a service. If there is any irregularity, a warning light will go on in the nearest police precinct station, showing the location of the offending computer terminal-and the unfortunate customer.
  They've been developing this internal passport system for several years now
and have everything worked out in detail. The only reason it hasn't been put
into operation has been squawks from civil-liberties groups, who see it as
another big step toward a police state-which, of course, it is. But now the
System is sure it can override the resistance of the libertarians by using us as
an excuse. Anything is permitted in the fight against "racism"!
  It will take at least three months to install the necessary equipment and get
the system operational, but they are going ahead with it as fast as they can,
figuring to announce it as await accompli with full backing from the news media.
Later, the system will gradually be expanded, with computer terminals eventually required in every retail establishment. No person will be able to eat a meal in a restaurant, pick up his laundry, or buy groceries without having his passport number magnetically read by a computer terminal beside the cash register.
  When things get to that point the System will really have a pretty tight grip
on the citizenry. With the power of modern computers at their disposal, the
political police will be able to pinpoint any person at any time and know just
where he's been and what he's done. We'll have to do some hard thinking to get around this passport system.
  From what our informants have told us so far, it won't be a simple matter of
just forging passports and making up phony numbers. If the central computer
spots a phony number, a signal will automatically be sent to the nearest police
station. The same thing will happen if John Jones, who lives in Spokane and is
using his passport to buy groceries there, suddenly seems to be buying groceries in Dallas too. Or even if, when the computer has Bill Smith safely located in a bowling alley on Main Street, he simultaneously shows up at a dry-cleaning establishment on the other side of town
  All this is an awesome prospect for us-something which has been technically
feasible for quite a while but which, until recently, we never would have
dreamed the System would actually attempt.
  One piece of news George brought back from his briefing was a summons for me to make an immediate visit to Unit 2 to solve a technical problem they had.
Ordinarily, neither George nor I would have known Unit 2's base location, and if it became necessary to meet someone from that unit the meeting would have taken place elsewhere. This problem required my going to their hideout, however, and George repeated to me the directions he had been given.
  They are up in Maryland, more than 30 miles from us, and, since I had to take
all my tools with me anyway, I took the car.
  They have a nice place, a large farmhouse and several outbuildings on about 40 acres of meadow and woodland. There are eight members in their unit, somewhat more than in most, but apparently not one of them knows a volt from an ampere or which end of a screwdriver is which. That is unusual, because some care was supposed to have been taken when forming our units to distribute valuable skills sensibly.
  Unit 2 is reasonably close to two other units, but all three are
inconveniently far from the other nine Washington-area units- and especially
from Unit 9, which was the only unit with a transmitter for contacting WFC.
Because of this, WFC had decided to give Unit 2 a transmitter, but they hadn't
been able to make it work.
  The reason for their difficulty became obvious as soon as they ushered me into
their kitchen, where their transmitter, an automobile storage battery, and some
odds and ends of wire were spread out on a table. Despite the explicit
instructions which I had prepared to go with each transmitter, and despite the
plainly visible markings beside the terminals on the transmitter case, they had
managed to connect the battery to the transmitter with the wrong polarity.
  I sighed and got a couple of their fellows to help me bring in my equipment
from the car. First I checked their battery and found it to be almost completely
discharged. I told them to put the battery on the charger while I checked out
the transmitter. Charger? What charger, they wanted to know? They didn't have one!
  Because of the uncertainty of the availability of electrical power from the
lines these days, all our communications equipment is operated from storage
batteries which are trickle-charged from the lines. This way we are not subject
to the power blackouts and brownouts which have become a weekly, if not daily, phenomenon in recent years.
  Just as with most other public facilities in this country, the higher the
price of electricity has zoomed, the less dependable it has become. In August of this year, for example, residential electrical service in the Washington area
was out completely for an average total of four days, and the voltage was
reduced by more than 15 per cent for an average total of 14 days.
  The government keeps holding hearings and conducting investigations and
issuing reports about the problem, but it just keeps getting worse. None of the
politicians are willing to face the real issues involved here, one of which is
the disastrous effect Washington's Israel-dominated foreign policy during the
last two decades has had on America's supply of foreign oil.

  I showed them how to hook up the battery to their truck for an emergency
charge and then began looking into their transmitter to see what damage had been   done. A charger for their battery would have to be found later.
  The most critical part of the transmitter, the coding unit which generates the
digital signal from a pocket-calculator keyboard, seemed to be OK. It was
protected by a diode from damage due to a polarity error. In the transmitter
itself, however, three transistors had been blown.
  I was pretty sure WFC had at least one more spare transmitter in stock, but in
order to find out I would have to get a message to them. That meant sending a
courier over to Unit 9 to transmit a query and then arranging to have someone
from WFC deliver the transmitter to us. I hesitated to bother WFC, in view of
our policy of restricting radio transmissions from field units to messages of
some urgency.
  Since Unit 2 needed a battery charger anyway, I decided to obtain the
replacement transistors from a commercial supply house at the same time I picked up a charger, and install them myself. Locating the parts I needed turned out to be easier said than done, however, and it was after six in the evening when I finally got back to the farmhouse.
  The fuel gauge in the car was reading "empty" when I pulled into their
driveway. Being afraid to risk using my gasoline ration card at a filling
station and not knowing where to find black-market gasoline around there, I had to ask the people in Unit 2 to give me a few gallons of fuel to return home.
Well, sir, not only did they have a grand total of about one gallon in their
truck, but they didn't know where any black-market gas was to be had either.
  I wondered how such an inept and unresourceful group of people were going to survive as an underground unit. It seems that they were all people that the
Organization decided would not be suited for guerrilla activities and had lumped
together in one unit. Four of them are writers from the Organization's
publications department, and they are carrying on their work at the farm,
turning out copy for propaganda pamphlets and leaflets. The other four are
acting only in a supporting role, keeping the place supplied with food and other
needs.
  Since nobody in Unit 2 really needs automotive transportation, they hadn't
worried much about fuel. Finally, one of them volunteered to go out later that
night and siphon some gasoline from a vehicle at a neighboring farm. It was
about that time that we had another power failure in the area, so I couldn't use
my soldering iron. I called it quits for the day.
  It took me all of the next day and well into last night to finally get their
transmitter working properly, because of several difficulties I hadn't
anticipated. When the job was finally done, around midnight, I suggested that
the transmitter be installed in a better location than the kitchen, preferably
in the attic, or at least on the second floor of the house.
  We found a suitable location and carried everything upstairs. In the process I
managed to drop the storage battery on my left foot. At first I was sure I had
broken my foot. I couldn't wall: at all on it.
  The result was that I spent another night in the farmhouse. Despite their
shortcomings, everyone in Unit 2 was really very kind to me, and they were
properly appreciative of my efforts on their behalf.
  As had been promised, stolen fuel was provided for my return trip.
Furthermore, they insisted on loading up the car with a great quantity of canned
food for me to take back, of which they seemed to have an unlimited supply. I
asked where they got it all, but the only reply I received was a smile and an
assurance that they could get plenty more when they needed it. Perhaps they are more resourceful than I thought at first.
  It was 10 o'clock this morning when I got back to our building. George and
Henry were both out, but Katherine greeted me as she opened the garage door for me to drive in. She asked if I had eaten breakfast yet.
  I told her I had eaten with Unit 2 and wasn't hungry, but that I was concerned
about the condition of my foot, which was throbbing painfully and had swelled to nearly twice its normal size. She assisted me as I hobbled up the stairs to the
living quarters, and then she brought me a large basin of cold water to soak my
foot in.
  The cold water relieved the throbbing almost immediately, and I leaned back
gratefully on the pillows which Katherine propped behind me on the couch. I
explained how I had hurt my foot, and we exchanged other news on the events of the last two days.
  The three of them had spent all of yesterday putting up shelves, making minor
repairs, and finishing the cleaning and painting which has kept us all busy for
more than a week. With the odds and ends of furniture we picked up earlier for
the place, it is really beginning to look livable. Quite an improvement from the
bare, cold, and dirty machine shop it was when we moved in.
  Last night, Katherine informed me, George was summoned by radio to another meeting with a man from WFC. Then, early this morning, he and Henry left together, telling her only that they would be gone all day.
  I must have dozed off for a few minutes, and when I awakened I was alone and my footbath was no longer cold. My foot felt much better, though, and the
swelling had subsided noticeably. I decided to take a shower.
  The shower is a makeshift, cold-water-only arrangement which Henry and I
installed in a large closet last week. We did the plumbing and put in a light,
and Katherine covered the walls and floor with a self-adhesive vinyl for
waterproofing. The closet opens off the room which George, Henry, and I use for sleeping. Of the other two rooms over the shop, Katherine uses the smaller one for a bedroom, and the other is a common room which also serves as a kitchen and eating area.
  I undressed, got a towel, and opened the door to the shower. And there was
Katherine, wet, naked, and lovely, standing under the bare light bulb and drying
herself. She looked at me without surprise and said nothing.
  I stood there for a moment and then, instead of apologizing and closing the
door again, I impulsively held out my arms to Katherine. Hesitantly, she stepped toward me. Nature took her course.
  We lay in bed for a long while afterward and talked. It was the first time I
have really talked to Katherine, alone. She is an affectionate, sensitive, and
very feminine girl beneath the cool, professional exterior she has always
maintained in her work for the Organization.
  Four years ago, before the Gun Raids, she was a Congressman's secretary. She lived in a Washington apartment with another girl who also worked on Capitol Hill. One evening when Katherine came home from work she found her apartment mate's body lying in a pool of blood on the floor. She had been raped and killed by a Negro intruder.
  That's why Katherine bought a pistol and kept it even after the Cohen Act made gun ownership illegal. Then, along with nearly a million others, she was swept up in the Gun Raids of 1989. Although she had never had any previous contact with the Organization, she met George in the detention center they were both held in after being arrested.
  Katherine had been apolitical. If anyone had asked her, during the time she
was working for the government or, before that, when she was a college student, she would have probably said she was a "liberal. " But she was liberal only in the mindless, automatic way that most people are. Without really thinking about it or trying to analyze it, she superficially accepted the unnatural ideology peddled by the mass media and the government. She had none of the bigotry, none of the guilt and self-hatred that it takes to make a really committed, full-time liberal.
  After the police released them, George gave her some books on race and history and some Organization publications to read. For the first time in her life she began thinking seriously about the important racial, social, and political
issues at the root of the day's problems.
  She learned the truth about the System's "equality" hoax. She gained an
understanding of the unique historical role of the Jews as the ferment of
decomposition of races and civilizations. Most important, she began acquiring a
sense of racial identity, overcoming a lifetime of brainwashing aimed at
reducing her to an isolated human atom in a cosmopolitan chaos.
  She had lost her Congressional job as a consequence of her arrest, and, about
two months later she went to work for the Organization as a typist in our
publications department. She is smart and a hard worker, and she was soon
advanced to proofreader and then to copy editor. She wrote a few articles of her own for Organization publications, mostly exploring women's roles in the
movement and in the larger society, and just last month she was named editor of a new Organization quarterly directed specifically toward women.
  Her editorial career has now been shelved, of course, at least temporarily,
and her most useful contribution to our present effort is her remarkable skill
at makeup and disguise, something she developed in amateur-theater work as a
student.
  Although her initial contact was with George, Katherine has never been
emotionally or romantically involved with him. When they first met, George was
still married. Later, after George's wife, who never approved of his work for
the Organization, had left him and Katherine had joined the Organization, they
were both too busy in different departments for much contact. George, in fact,
whose work as a fund raiser and roving organizer kept him on the road, wasn't
really around Washington much.
  It is only a coincidence that George and Katherine were assigned to this unit
together, but George pretty obviously feels a proprietary interest in her.
Although Katherine never did or said anything to support my assumption, until
this morning I had taken it for granted from George's behavior toward her that
there was at least a tentative relationship between them.
  Since George is nominally our unit leader, I have heretofore kept my natural
attraction toward Katherine under control. Now I'm afraid that the situation has
become a bit awkward. If George is unable to adjust graciously to it, things
will be strained and may only by resolved by some personnel transfers between
our unit and others in the area.
  For the time being, however, there are other problems to worry about-big ones!
When George and Henry finally got back this evening, we found out what they'd been doing all day: casing the FBI's national headquarters downtown. Our unit has been assigned the task of blowing it up!
  The initial order came all the way down from Revolutionary Command, and a man was sent from the Eastern Command Center to the WFC briefing George attended Sunday to look over the local unit leaders and pick one for this assignment.
  Apparently Revolutionary Command has decided to take the offensive against the political police before they arrest too many more of our "legals" or finish
setting up their computerized passport system.
  George was given the word after he was summoned by WFC for a second briefing yesterday. A man from Unit 8 was also at yesterday's briefing. Unit 8 will be assisting us.
  The plan, roughly, is this: Unit 8 will secure a large quantity of explosives-between five and ten tons. Our unit will hijack a truck making a
legitimate delivery to the FBI headquarters, rendezvous at a location where Unit 8 will be waiting with the explosives, and switch loads. We will then drive into the FBI building's freight-receiving area, set the fuse, and leave the truck.
  While Unit 8 is solving the problem of the explosives, we have to work out all
the other details of the assignment, including a determination of the FBI's
freight-delivery schedules and procedures. We have been given a ten-day
deadline. My job will be the design and construction of the mechanism of the bomb itself.

Chapter V

October 3, 1991. I've been breaking up my work on the FBI project with some handyman activity around our building. Last night I finished our perimeter-alarm system, and today I did some rough and very dirty work on our emergency escape tunnel.
  Along both sides and the back of the building I buried a row of pressure-sensitive pads, which are wired to a light and an alarm buzzer inside. The pads are the sort which are often installed under doormats inside stores to signal the arrival of a customer They consist of two-foot-long metal strips sealed inside a flexible plastic sheet, and they are waterproof. Covered with an inch of soil they are undetectable, but they will signal us if anyone steps on the ground above them.
  This method could not be used in front of our building, because nearly all the ground there is covered by the concrete driveway and parking area. After considering and rejecting an ultrasonic detector for the front, I settled on a photoelectric beam between two steel fence posts on either side of the concrete area.
  In order to keep the light source and photocell unnoticeable, it was necessary to place them inside the fence post on one side, with a very small and inconspicuous reflector mounted on the other. I had to drill several holes in one post, and quite a bit of tinkering was necessary to make everything work properly.
  Katherine was a big help with this, carefully adjusting the reflector while I lined up the light and photocell. It was also at her suggestion that I changed the alarm system inside the building, so that it not only warns us at the instant an intruder steps on one of the pressure-sensitive pads or interrupts the light beam, but it also turns on an electric clock in the garage. This way we will know whether someone has been around while we were all out of the building-and we will know when.
  In cleaning out a filthy collection of empty oil cans, greasy rags, and miscellaneous trash from the service pit which had been used for changing oil and working underneath automobiles in the garage, we discovered that the service pit opens directly into a storm sewer through a steel grating in the concrete floor.
  Prying up the grating, we found that it is possible to crawl into the storm sewer, which is a concrete pipe four feet in diameter. The pipe runs about 400 yards to a large, open drainage ditch. Along the way there are about a dozen smaller pipes emptying into the main conduit, apparently from street drains. The open end of the sewer is protected by a grating of half-inch reinforcing rods set into the concrete.
  Today I took a hacksaw, scuttled down to the end of the sewer, and sawed through all but two of the steel rods. This left the grating firmly in place but made it possible, with a great deal of effort, to bend it aside far enough to crawl out.
  I did so and took a brief look around. The side of the ditch is heavily overgrown, providing good concealment from the nearby road. And from the road it is not possible to see our building or any part of the street on which it fronts, because of intervening structures. When I reentered the sewer, I grunted and strained until I had bent the grating back in place again.
  Unfortunately, the people who ran the garage and machine shop before we moved in must have been dumping all their waste oil into the storm sewer for years, because there's about four inches of thick, black sludge along the bottom of the sewer pipe near the opening from the service pit. When I crawled out into the shop again I was covered with the stuff.

Henry and George were both out, and Katherine made me strip and hosed me down in the service pit before she would even let me go upstairs to take a shower. She declared the shoes and clothes I had been wearing a total loss and threw them out.
  Every time I take an ice-cold shower I bitterly regret that Henry and I didn't take the time to add hot water to our makeshift shower stall.

  October 6. Today I completed the detonating mechanism for the bomb we'll use against the FBI building. The trigger mechanism itself was quite easy, but I was held up on the booster until yesterday, because I didn't know what sort of explosives we would be using.
  The people in Unit 8 had planned to raid a supply shed in one of the areas where the Washington subway system is being extended, but they didn't have any luck at all until yesterday- and then not much. They were only able to steal two cases of blasting gelatin, and one case wasn't even full. Less than 100 pounds.
  But that solved my problem, at least. The blasting gelatin is sensitive enough to be initiated by one of my homemade lead azide detonators, and 100 pounds of it will be more than sufficient to detonate the main charge, when and if Unit 8 finds more explosives, regardless of what they are or how they are packaged.
  I packed about four pounds of the blasting gelatin into an empty applesauce can, primed it, placed the batteries and timing mechanism in the top of the can, and wired them to a small toggle switch on the end of a 20-foot extension cord. When we load the truck with explosives, the can will go in back, on top of the two cases of blasting gelatin. We'll have to poke small holes in the walls of the trailer and the cab to run the extension cord and the switch into the cab.
  Either George or Henry-probably Henry-will drive the truck into the freight-receiving area inside the FBI building. Before he gets out of the cab he will flip the switch, starting the timer. Ten minutes later the explosives will go off. If we're lucky, that will be the end of the FBI building-and the government's new three-billion-dollar computer complex for their internal-passport system.
  Six or seven years ago, when they first started releasing "trial balloons" to see what the public reaction to the new passport system would be, it was said that its main purpose would be to detect illegal aliens, so they could be deported.
  Although some citizens were properly suspicious of the whole scheme, most swallowed the government's explanation of why the passports were needed. Thus, many labor union members, who saw illegal aliens as a threat to their jobs during a time of high unemployment, thought it was a fine idea, while liberals generally opposed it because it sounded "racist"-illegal aliens being virtually all non-White. Later, when the government granted automatic citizenship to everyone who had managed to sneak across the Mexican border and remain in the country for two years, the liberal opposition evaporated-except for a hard core of libertarians who were still suspicious.
  All in all, it has been depressingly easy for the System to deceive and manipulate the American people-whether the relatively naive "conservatives" or the spoiled and pseudo-sophisticated "liberals." Even the libertarians, inherently hostile to all government, will be intimidated into going along when Big Brother announces that the new passport system is necessary to find and root out "racists"-namely, us.

  If the freedom of the American people were the only thing at stake, the existence of the Organization would hardly be justified. Americans have lost their right to be free. Slavery is the just and proper state for a people who have grown as soft, self-indulgent, careless, credulous, and befuddled as we have.
  Indeed, we are already slaves. We have allowed a diabolically clever, alien minority to put chains on our souls and our minds. These spiritual chains are a truer mark of slavery than the iron chains which are yet to come.
  Why didn't we rebel 35 years ago, when they took our schools away from us and began converting them into racially mixed jungles? Why didn't we throw them all out of the country 50 years ago, instead of letting them use us as cannon fodder in their war to subjugate Europe?
  More to the point, why didn't we rise up three years ago, when they started taking our guns away? Why didn't we rise up in righteous fury and drag these arrogant aliens into the streets and cut their throats then? Why didn't we roast them over bonfires at every street-corner in America? Why didn't we make a final end to this obnoxious and eternally pushy clan, this pestilence from the sewers of the East, instead of meekly allowing ourselves to be disarmed?
  The answer is easy. We would have rebelled if all that has been imposed on us in the last 50 years had been attempted at once. But because the chains that bind us were forged imperceptibly, link by link, we submitted.
The adding of any single, new link to the chain was never enough for us to make a big fuss about. It always seemed easier -and safer-to go along. And the further we went, the easier it was to go just one step further.
One thing the historians will have to decide-if any men of our race survive to write a history of this era-is the relative importance of deliberation and inadvertence in converting us from a society of free men to a herd of human cattle.
  That is, can we justly blame what has happened to us entirely on deliberate subversion, carried out through the insidious propaganda of the controlled mass media, the schools, the churches, and the government? Or must we place a large share of the blame on inadvertent decadence - on the spiritually debilitating life style into which the Western people have allowed themselves to slip in the twentieth century?
  Probably the two things are intertwined, and it will be difficult to blame either cause separately. Brainwashing has made decadence more acceptable to us, and decadence has made us less resistant to brainwashing. In any event, we are too close to the trees now to see the outline of the forest very clearly.
  But one thing which is quite clear is that much more than our freedom is at stake. If the Organization fails in its task now, everything will be lost-our history, our heritage, all the blood and sacrifices and upward striving of countless thousands of years. The Enemy we are fighting fully intends to destroy the racial basis of our existence.
  No excuse for our failure will have any meaning, for there will be only a swarming horde of indifferent, mulatto zombies to hear it. There will be no White men to remember us-either to blame us for our weakness or to forgive us for our folly.  If we fail, God's great Experiment will come to an end, and this planet will once again, as it did millions of years ago, move through the ether devoid of higher man.

  October 11. Tomorrow is the day! Despite the failure of Unit 8 to find as much explosives as we want, we are going ahead with the FBI operation.
  The final decision on this came late this afternoon in a conference at Unit 8's headquarters. Henry and I were both there, as well as a staff officer from Revolutionary Command- an indication of the urgency with which the Organization's leadership views this operation.
  Ordinarily Revolutionary Command personnel do not become involved with unit actions on an operational level. We receive operational orders from and report to Washington Field Command, with representatives from the Eastern Command Center participating occasionally in conferences when matters of special importance must be decided. Only twice previously have I attended meetings with anyone from Revolutionary Command, both times to make basic decisions concerning the Organization's communications equipment, which I was designing. And that, of course, was before we went underground.
  So the presence of Major Williams (a pseudonym, I believe) at our meeting this afternoon made a strong impression on all of us. I was asked to attend because I am responsible for the proper functioning of the bomb. Henry was there because he will be delivering it.
  And the reason for the meeting was Unit 8's failure to obtain what I and Ed Sanders estimate to be the minimum quantity of explosives needed to do a thorough job. Ed is Unit 8's ordnance expert-and, interestingly enough, a former special agent of the FBI who is familiar with the structure and layout of the FBI building.
  As carefully as we could, we calculated that we should have at least 10,000 pounds of TNT or an equivalent explosive to destroy a substantial portion of the building and wreck the new computer center in the sub-basement. To be on the safe side, we asked for 20,000 pounds. Instead, what we have is a little under 5,000 pounds, and nearly all of that is ammonium nitrate fertilizer, which is much less effective than TNT for our purpose.
  After the initial two cases of blasting gelatin, Unit 8 was able to pick up 400 pounds of dynamite from another subway construction shed. We have given up hope of assembling the necessary quantity of explosives in this way, however. Although large quantities of explosives are used each day on the subway, it is stored in small batches and access is very difficult. Two of Unit 8's people had a close call when they swiped the dynamite.
  Last Thursday, with our deadline for completing the job upon us, three men from Unit 8 made a night raid on a farm-supply warehouse near Fredericksburg, about 50 miles south of here. They found no explosives, as such, but did find some ammonium nitrate, which they cleaned out: forty-four 100-lb. bags of the stuff.
  Sensitized with oil and tightly confined, it makes an effective blasting agent, where the aim is simply to move a quantity of dirt or rock. But our original plan for the bomb called for it to be essentially unconfined and to be able to punch through two levels of reinforced-concrete flooring while producing an open-air blast wave powerful enough to blow the facade off a massive and strongly constructed building.
  Finally, two days ago, Unit 8 set about doing what it should have done at the beginning. The same three fellows who had gotten the ammonium nitrate headed up into Maryland with their truck to rob a military arsenal. I gather from what Ed Sanders says that we have a legal on the inside there who will be able to help.
  But, as of this afternoon, there has been no word from them, and Revolutionary Command isn't willing to wait any longer. The pros and cons of going ahead with what we have now are these:
  The System is hurting us badly by continuing to arrest our legals, upon whom the Organization is largely dependent for its financing. If the supply of funds from our legals is cut off, our underground units will be forced to turn to robbery on a large scale in order to support themselves.
  Thus, Revolutionary Command feels it is essential to strike the System immediately with a blow which will not only interrupt the FBI roundup of our legals, at least temporarily, but will also raise morale throughout the Organization by embarrassing the System and demonstrating our ability to act. From what Williams said, I gather that these two goals have become even more pressing than the original objective of knocking out the computer bank.
  On the other hand, if we strike a blow which does not do some real damage to the System's secret police we may not only fail to achieve these new goals but, by forewarning the enemy of our intentions and tactics, also make it much more difficult to hit the computers later. This was the viewpoint expressed by Henry, whose great gift is his ability to always keep a cool head and not

be distracted from future goals by immediate difficulties. But he is also a good soldier and is completely willing to carry through with his part of tomorrow's action, despite his feeling that we should hold off until we are certain that we can do a thorough job.
  I believe the people in Revolutionary Command also understand the danger in hasty, premature action. But they must take into consideration many factors which we cannot. Williams is clearly convinced that it is imperative to throw a monkey wrench into the FBI's gears immediately, otherwise they will flatten us like a steamroller. Thus, most of our discussion this afternoon centered on the narrow question of just how much damage we can do with our present quantity of explosives.
  If, in accord with our original plan, we drive a truck into the main freight entrance of the FBI building and blow it up in the freight-receiving area, the explosion will take place in a large, central courtyard, surrounded on all sides by heavy masonry and open to the sky above. Ed and I both agree that with the present quantity of explosives we will not be able to do any really serious structural damage under those conditions.
  We can wreak havoc in all the offices with windows opening on the courtyard, but we cannot hope to blow away the inner facade of the building or to punch through to the sub-basement where the computers are. Several hundred people will be killed, but the machine will probably keep running.

  Sanders pleaded for another day or two for his unit to find more explosives, but his case was weakened by their failure to find what was needed in the last 12 days. With nearly a hundred of our legals being arrested every day, we can't take a chance on waiting even another two days, Williams said, unless we can be certain that those two days will bring us what we need.
  What we finally decided is to attempt to get our bomb directly into the first-level basement, which also has a freight entrance on 10th Street, next to the main freight entrance. If we detonate our bomb in the basement underneath the courtyard, the confinement will make it substantially more effective. It will almost certainly collapse the basement floor into the subbasement, burying the computers. Furthermore it will destroy most, if not all, the communications and power equipment for the building, since those are on the basement levels. The big unknown is whether it will do enough structural damage to the building to make it uninhabitable for an extended period. Without a detailed blueprint of the building and a team of architects and civil engineers we simply can't answer that question.
  The drawback to going for the basement is that relatively few freight deliveries are made there, and the entrance is usually closed. Henry is willing to crash the truck right through the door, if necessary.
  So be it. Tomorrow night we'll know a lot more than we do today.

Chapter VI

  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.