The first thing you need to understand about the Party in those days was that it wasn’t ever a democratic political party, in the sense of running candidates in elections like the Republicans and Democrats. Don’t be fooled by the fact that we occasionally contested a few local elections across the Northwest, and even won a few. Those were carefully selected and planned exercises in propaganda and psychological warfare, and their purpose was to let us take advantage of the severely limited legal status it gave us, at least for the duration of the campaign. After the votes were in, ZOG always came after everybody involved, investigating and arresting and prosecuting them if they could for any little pissant election law violation they found, so we didn’t even bother to run for town council very often. We were never under any illusion that we would vote our way into power anyway, and despite what you hear about the alleged debate within the Party between the revolutionaries and the kosher conservatives, I don’t recall ever meeting anybody who was dumb enough to think we could win at the ballot box. That so-called debate was pretty much over by the time I got involved. We all understood that the whole system we lived under was deliberately constructed to make sure that ordinary people like us never got anywhere near the buttons and levers of true state power, and never got into any position where we might actually get our fingers into the cookie jar. State power was for the rich only: for lawyers, Jews, and white men without souls in expensive business suits. Period, end of story. All of the instruments of law and government in the United States, the news media, the right to speak and have your voice heard, the right to be treated with respect and not be kicked like a dog and used as a teat to be milked for money—all that was for the rich, the one percent of the population that controlled ninety-nine percent of the world’s wealth and all of its people. Po’ white boys need not apply.
At one point we had a local sympathizer named Max Morton who decided to run for mayor of Dundee on a Party platform against the incumbent, Ole Stolen, which I always thought was a really appropriate name for that crook. Before the campaign got really started, Max’s campaign manager was arrested and charged with tax evasion, petty stuff but big headlines in the Advertiser, of course. Max started getting anonymous phone and e-mail threats that shook him; Red Morehouse told us confidentially he didn’t think our candidate was going to stand up. Unknown parties also made obscene phone calls to Max’s wife and kids and followed them around town, his windows were broken by the local red, white and blue yay-hoos, and needless to say Max was fired from his job the day after he announced his candidacy. Then one night Leon Sorels, Des Farrow and a couple of other Dundee cops pulled Max over and beat him almost to death with their nightsticks. When Morton got out of the hospital he was a broken man in every sense of the word. He fled the area, we never heard from him again, and after that we never bothered with elections in Dundee. There is no point in playing against a stacked deck, and I’m somewhat surprised that Morton ever thought there was.
Red Morehouse taught us early on that there was never any such thing in America as democracy, at least not since the time of Andrew Jackson. After 1861 when Lincoln called up the military to kill other Americans for exercising their Constitutional right to say no, there was no more Constitution in any sense that men like Jefferson or Franklin would have understood. After 1913 when the Federal Reserve was created and the American money supply handed over to the Jews, there was no more free enterprise. After Roosevelt seized power in 1933, control of the apparatus of state passed out of the hands of the original racial stock who created America and into the hands of an evil alien race who had no business being here in the first place. After the Gulf of Tonkin resolution in 1965, which made the President of the United States a military Caesar with the power to invade other countries at will, there was for all practical purposes no more legislative branch of government. From that point on Congress was just a revolting ball of soft, squishy, yea-saying leeches, bloated from feeding off the blood of America. After Roe versus Wade in 1972 there was no more right to life itself. Babies could be murdered because they were inconvenient, and after that precedent was set anyone could be murdered because they were inconvenient. After Bush Two staged a coup d’état in 2000 and had himself appointed president by the Supreme Court, there was no longer any pretense of election. Presidents were made or broken in the corporate boardrooms, and except for a few really nasty cases like Bill and Hillary Clinton they were just figureheads for the corporations anyway. After the Patriot Act there was no longer even the pretense of personal freedom, and after that came the Dees Act, the Schumer Act, the Senior Citizens’ Quality of Life Act that let that kike doctor murder my father, so forth and so on. And of course the draft that dragged hundreds of thousands of young white boys out into the deserts of Arabia to die for all our wonderful freedom, which was in essence a reintroduced form of slavery. In the eighteenth century slave traders grabbed blacks and brought them here, and in the twenty-first century they grabbed everybody they could of any color and sent them to the Middle East. As far as human political development went, America from 1861 on actually traveled backwards.
The Party was an army of political soldiers, and our goal was not to elect our own crowd to some public office under a system that we despised, but to destroy that system completely and replace it with our own form of government. It’s called revolution, and every society needs one every few generations to weed the garden. Liberal democracy was a playpen set up by and for the rich and the Jewish, and we no longer intended to play in it. Although we did use the existing political system as far as we could by adapting it to our own purposes, our entire goal in life was to prepare for the day when the revolution would start, and we never forgot that fact. Power comes out of the barrel of a gun, all law is based on armed force, and when one wants to remove the people who hold power and change the system that makes and enforces law the only way is through force of arms, because nobody surrenders power except at the point of the sword. The Party understood this and as a result, we were actually half-assed prepared when the balloon finally did go up. We had at least some kind of basic organization, we had built a base in the community as shaky as it was, and we had a rudimentary revolutionary structure set up of people with weapons, safe houses, transport and money. If we hadn’t been ready, then there wouldn’t be any white people left in North America today.
While we’re on the subject of the pre-10/22 period, a question I’ve often heard asked is whether or not the Incomers were really necessary? Would not the white people of the Northwest have revolted against the United States on their own, without all those racially conscious white people from all over America and all over the world taking the gap to the Homeland before the Coeur d’Alene uprising? I can tell you the answer to that one right now. No. Revolution needs a kind of critical mass, and without the racial settlers we natives would never have reached it on our own. There simply weren’t enough of us woodchucks, and before we got that transfusion of racially aware blood, we were all just as pig-ignorant about racial reality as the white population of the rest of the empire was. The Aryan Incomers were the people who made the revolution possible, and even though some of them were arrogant SOBs who called us Daryl and his other brother Daryl, we owe them our freedom. If the Wingfields hadn’t made the pioneer trek from South Carolina and settled in Dundee, then there is every chance I would have drifted into booze like my parents, or drifted into drugs and crime like my one brother, or drifted into evil like my other brother who became a lawyer. Or just plain drifted. Either way, my life would never have amounted to anything, and I would have died years ago like my father in some wretched so-called nursing home, when some overworked so-called medical professional decided I was a nuisance and gave me the hot shot, or maybe I just would have been smothered with a pillow for fun by some hopped-up, grinning Jamaican “caregiver.”
The Zionist power structure was feeble and incompetent and senile, but they knew what was going on with the Party and they retaliated. Not to downgrade
the importance of what happened in Coeur d’Alene on that one glorious day, or the shooting war that came after, but I have always felt that a lot of our historians either don’t recall or else have never understood just how rough and violent and dangerous things were for us before 10/22. That was in the days when we couldn’t strike back, at least not officially. Oh, we didn’t always roll over and play dead. Things went on in the dark of night. ZOG knew that we could be proactive if we had to, and in a strange sort of way I think that saved us. I think there were still a few halfway intelligent people in the United States government who understood that there was potential for a major league disaster, from their point of view, and who tried to work out some kind of compromise that would at least allow us low level entrée into the political process. Throw the white boys a few crumbs from the table, in a manner of speaking. But these few voices of sanity and reason within the power structure were ignored and shouted down. The Jews never did have sense enough to try the carrot instead of the stick, so deep and abiding was their hatred for anyone who challenged their authority and their right to rule our lives.
We were at first ignored. Then when we could be ignored no longer we were harassed by low-level local thugs and Zionist bullies like Leon Sorels. When we could not be run out of town or beaten into submission, ZOG tried to shut us down on a state level with special laws that seldom said so outright, but were quite clearly aimed at us. Whatever the Party did, the state legislature would try to ban it, sometimes rushing into special session to change the constitution, like that time the Old Man won the Republican lieutenant governor’s primary and drove the whole Judœo-liberal establishment batshit. But the Zionist government was hampered by a need to preserve the appearance of freedom of expression and political liberty, while denying white people the substance, if you get my meaning. They tried to create a situation where technically speaking, the Party could exist, but we couldn’t junction. Under the old 1787 United States Constitution, in theory we had the right to freedom of speech. But if we passed out a leaflet or put up a sticker that caused some godforsaken little minority “mental anguish” then it was a felony hatecrime. Or at least felony littering. Yeah, they actually came up with felony littering statutes; five years in the pen for tossing a leaflet or a newspaper on someone’s lawn. When all else failed there was always “civil rights violation,” which meant whatever the U.S. Attorney General and the Federal courts said it meant. They once charged some white kids in Idaho with civil rights violation for throwing a dead snake on a nigger’s porch; all three of them were sentenced to life in prison. The Beast didn’t just plain ban us until after 10/22, when the Party was declared to be a criminal organization, but we were treated like a criminal organization long before that. Well, we returned the favor a few years later when we declared the government of the United States to be a criminal organization.
We were a legal movement that had to act as if we were an illegal one in order to survive. Even in our allegedly open and lawful days, the Party was structured on a paramilitary basis. Nothing fancy, just a lean and mean org table based on the two best working models of the time, the Provisional I.R.A. and Cosa Nostra. In fact, that’s where Echo Company originally began. It was very loose, very simple and stripped down, but the basic structure of a revolutionary army was there. No state headquarters, just local units or groups that reported to a single individual, or at most a team of two or three superiors for purposes of co-ordination and efficiency. Above that level there was General Headquarters, which towards the end of the “legal” phase changed locations so often they never even bothered to rent a post office box and communicated only by phone and e-mail and through a few web sites. At one stage GHQ was operating out of an eighteen-wheeler rigged to look like a frozen chicken refrigeration truck, with the Old Man and a couple of other guys sleeping in hammocks and pulling in at state parks and truck stops to take showers and do laundry. The idea was that if ever the local units were cut off from communication with GHQ, most likely when the hammer dropped and we had to go completely covert, then every small team could and would function independently. Everyone knew the ultimate goal, independence, and everyone struggled toward that goal. As Robert Miles said, the Party was designed for us all to march separately but strike together.
When I say we were political soldiers I do mean political soldiers. Each Party unit or group was ramrodded by a company commander, who was called the unit co-ordinator or sometimes group leader, on the rare occasions when he was called anything at all. These crews were small enough so everybody knew who was who, and when you said “George” or “the guy downtown,” everybody knew who you were talking about. The unit boss set up small teams of three and four people with a designated lead, and with rare exceptions the team leads were the only ones who dealt with the unit lead, and then only one at a time, lest anyone conspire. Get-togethers of Party people on anything larger than a team basis for a specific activity were rare, with one exception I’ll talk about in a bit. The days of the big Aryan Nations-style gatherings, come one come all, any Tom Dick or Harry with a pale skin and two legs can waltz right in and welcome, mass rallies where sometimes the undercover agents and undercover media reporters outnumbered the genuine white racists—those days were long gone.
Some of the larger Party groups that later morphed into NVA brigades had political officers or “information officers” who ran a special propaganda team of printers, writers, computer techies, media wonks, etc. to produce local propaganda aimed specifically at their area. Most future NVA Political Officers got their start in underground propaganda or teaching. Some groups had an operations officer who acted as the group lead’s stand-in and chief head-knocker, and sometimes there was a quartermaster slot filled by someone who supplied necessary premises and plant, but this only occurred where those guys were actually needed. The Party very early on adopted a policy that form would follow junction, meaning many Indians and very few chiefs. We were always very short on uniforms and fancy titles. None of this nonsense about Fearless Leaders dressing up in Napoleonic hussar’s uniforms for the television cameras and proclaiming themselves Emperor of the North, with some janitor in Beaverton as Crown Prince of Portland or whatever. For a while we adopted the fedora hat as a kind of unofficial badge almost like gang colors, and I have to admit that it felt good striding down the street in a bunch with our shlapas on, but even that got to be more trouble and risk and attention-drawing than it was worth, the more serious we became. The Old Man was officially General Secretary of the Party, but no one ever called him that.
Even this brief description I just gave you makes the Party sound a hell of a lot more organized than it was. Getting things done was a matter of “I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who can help.” You knew and trusted a few people in a small group of comrades and by consensus or natural selection, one or two of those comrades called the shots. If you had special skills other teams would borrow your services, or if you had to relocate elsewhere in the Northwest you were given one or two contacts in your new area, and you either jelled with them or you recruited your own team. Each Party unit had a loosely defined operational area, and some whole groups had special functions like propaganda, technical, fund-raising, the acquisition of plant, etc.
It wasn’t all just us peasantry; there were Party cells to be found in Seattle boardrooms and police stations and military bases and even in a few television stations and newsrooms. Some of the early psywar ops were fun and funny, like trying to provoke or fabricate some politician or liberal big knob to say nigger and make sure they got caught by the media. I once helped plant some literature and other stuff in a key place that got our Congressman from Dundee in a lot of hot water as an alleged closet racist, not to mention a gent of extremely odd sexual tastes that got him in a lot of trouble with our small but very loud local feminist clique. The Party especially loved using deception, media manipulation, and razzle-dazzle scamming to stir up friction and trouble between the various minority groups and
power factions, blacks against feminists, Mexicans against gays, liberals against Jews, Christians against Jews, blacks against Jews—hell, anybody against Jews. The more time the enemies of our race spent at each other’s throats, sometimes literally, the less time they had to wonder what the Party was doing.
The purpose of the Party was threefold: to educate the white population through propaganda and thus prepare them for independence; to recruit quality white people who could be of immediate and practical use to the revolution; and to prepare for the armed struggle against ZOG we all knew would come, without which everyone knew there would never be change. Everything we did was required to serve one or more of those three objectives.
Our small Party crew in Dundee was pretty typical. It consisted of myself, the Wingfield family, a grumpy middle-aged guy named John Pilafski who managed the only remaining white-owned convenience store in Dundee until the wogs finally ran him out of business, and the members of Red Morehouse’s after-hours history and literature class, which we called the Chowder Society. Most of us were young. Red and Carter did most of the recruiting, including the careful background checking and look-over everyone got before we approached anyone. You did not join the Party. The Party joined you, and that eliminated a lot of potential informers as well as drunks and nuts and other undesirables of the kind who befouled the pre-Northwest Migration white resistance movement, such as it was. You don’t leave the door to your house wide open and let any clown just walk in off the street, right? You choose who to invite in. I later learned that before Carter approached me that rainy night on First Street, he had run a full check on me and my parents through his business, Rooney had stolen my school records out of the filing cabinet at Dundee High and copied them illegally, Ma Wingfield had gone into the laundromat and struck up a brief and unpleasant but informative acquaintance with my mother, and Carter himself cruised my trailer park and the local hangouts and found out what little else there was to know about me and my parents.
A DISTANT THUNDER Page 16
